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Photo by Soule Art Co. 

HE WAS SEATED AT THE ORGAN, WITH PASSION- 
ATE EYES UPLIFTED IN AN AGONY OF RENUNCI- 
ATION. 




A Bottle 
In The Smoke 


Cooke Don-Carlos 


It 


1907 

MAYHEW PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
100 Ruggles Street, Boston, Mass. 



of CONGRESS 
Two Cooles Received 

SEF 23 laOr 

^ Cooyriirht Entry 
CLASS XXC., No. 
COPY D. 


Copyright, 1907 
by 

Louisa Cooke Don-Carlos. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER page 

I I 


III 12 

IV 17 

V 23 

VI 33 

VII 40 

VIII 48 

IX 55 

X 63 

XI 69 

XII 75 

XIII 81 

XIV 87 

XV 94 

XVI 99 

XVII 105 

XVIII 1 12 

XIX 121 

XX 128 

XXI 134 

XXII 142 


PAGE 


CHAPTER 

XXIII 149 

XXIV 159 

XXV.... 166 

XXVI 177 

XXVII 186 

XXVIII 194 

XXIX 205 

XXX 213 

XXXI 220 

XXXII 225 

XXXIII 231 

XXXIV 236 

XXXV 242 


“For I am become like a bottle in the smoke.” 

Psalm CXIX. 



“Readers who please to go along with us into this poor 
Jocelini Chronica shall wander inconveniently enough, as 
in wintry twilight, through some poor stripped hazel-grove, 
rustling with foolish noises, and perpetually hindering the 
eyesight; but across which, here and there, some real 
human figure is seen moving: very strange; whom we 
could hail if he would answer ; — and we look into a pair 
of eyes as deep as our own, imaging our own, but all un- 
conscious of us; to whom we, for the time, are become as 
spirits and invisible!” — Carlyle’s “Past and Present.” 



A Bottle in the Smoke. 

CHAPTER I. 

“I did renounce the world; 

Its pride and greed, 

Palace, farm, villa, shop; 

Trash — such as these poor devils 
Have given their hearts to. 

All at eight years old.” 

Brother Jocelin smiled as he traced the beautiful letters 
of the Missal he was illumining, and softly sang King 
Knut’s song — 

“Merrily sang the monks. 

While merrily rowed the King, 

And all the birds did also sing. 

And tell their loves 

’Twas spring — ’twas spring!” 

He was low of stature, and dark of eye and complexion, 
with clear-cut features of singular beauty and his hands 
and sandaled feet were small, and white, for Brother Jocelin 
was a limner, and so, free from those menial tasks which 
fell to the lot of the uneducated monk. He wore the usual 
dress of the Benedictines — the loose black robe with its 
obtuse, oval hood and plain scapular; and, as the sunlight 
streamed upon him through the narrow casement, he seemed 
to absorb all its brightness; his picturesque figure strangely 
at variance with its bare environment; for the Scriptorium 
of St. Edmund’s Abbey was scantily furnished with a 


2 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


carved desk and stool, and naught else, save a great ebony 
crucifix on the wall, inscribed “Beholde my meekness, 
chylde, and leave thy pryde.” As if this monk stood in 
need of warning against the pride of life, and the rush of 
warm blood in his young veins. 

It was spring, and he was but twenty. When the spring 
sun shines, and the buds burst forth as if called into being 
by the birds’ songs, the hearts of Earth’s young creatures, 
everywhere expand and throb, and glow in the stir and 
warmth of Nature’s revival. Jocelin was weary of the 
dim cloisters, of the drone of prayer and chant, and to-day 
a mad impulse urged him to fling aside his black robe and 
go forth into the bright world of camp and court; to do 
deeds of great emprise, to win fame, and the love of some 
pink-cheeked maid; and to live a man’s life in a man’s 
world. The song died away, and he sat idly gazing 
through the open casement. 

The pear trees were blooming in the Abbey garden, 
and the sunshine seemed wooing each blossom’s white 
breast from beneath its vernal zone. The apple trees 
spread their lacy boughs beside the delicate pink tracery 
of the plum. A white-throat chirped her nestlings to sleep 
in a gnarled oak which stood at the end of the long pleached 
walk; and the light, filtering through the tender green of 
young leaves, everywhere flecked the stone pavement 
with bits of brightness. Beyond the walk, stretched a 
colonade extending the Abbey’s entire length and through 
the arched openings white and black robed monks hurried 
to and fro, unmindful of the beauties so near them. Above 
all, towered the grim, gray walls of Bury St. Edmunds 


3 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 

with many an arch, rounded belfry, deep-set window and 
grim gargoyle; massive, stern and strong — a testament 
in stone of the power of Rome in England. 

The Abbey lay along the eastern slope of the town of 
St. Edmunds, a town of no mean size in itself. 

Its embattled walls with four grand gateways, enclosed 
fully sixty acres, containing many buildings and court- 
yards, besides gardens and cemeteries. The buildings, 
including three chapels, the Chapter house, the Ambulatory 
and the Infirmary, huddled about the church, like small chil- 
dren at a mother’s knee. Behind these, to the west, was 
the empty house of the Master of Horse, for once 
the Abbey had maintained several score of fighting horse- 
men. The humble cots of Cellarer, Seneschal and Clerk 
were near by, in front of the long, low line of stables along 
the southern wall; and enclosing a spacious courtyard was 
Bradfield, “A certain solemn mansion,” the residence of 
the Abbot, and often used by the King himself. This 
completed the Abbey settlement, save for a high tower 
which stood far down by the northern wall, overlooking a 
forest. It stood there grim and mysterious, with its low, 
iron-spiked door, widely placed ollietts, and deep-set, 
narrow windows high up toward its conical roof. This 
was the Abbey prison, and, (some said), torture house. 
Dark tales were whispered of it in St. Edmund’s town, 
and the solitary herdsman passing on his way home at 
twilight, shuddered and crossed himself, thinking its shadow 
crept over the wall to follow him. 

The revenues of the Abbey were great, and her holdings 
formed a whole county in themselves, yet insatiable, she 


4 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


stretched her fingers into other Hundreds, and her scattered 
carucates of land were many, and fifty advocates, or 
feudal knights, with their hundreds of vassals, did her 
homage, headed by the renowned Adam de Cokefeld. 

But it was not of the wealth or greatness of the Abbey, 
nor of the fair scene before him, that Brother Jocelin 
thought. He had forgotten it and his monastic life, 
and was thinking of his early childhood, in St. Ed- 
mund’s town ; of the low raftered house of his father, Magis- 
ter Wilhelm, in the narrow little lane of Brakelond, just 
outside the Abbey wall, and he saw the long, bare room 
where his father taught. Magister Wilhelm was Master 
of the Schools, with a few sons of the Abbey-vassals for 
pupils, but the school was mostly filled with young indigent 
clergy who, unattached to any monastery, came hither to 
obtain the learning for which they were unable to pay. 

Such being the general financial status of his scholars, 
and his allowance from the Abbey being small, it was not 
to be wondered at that Magister Wilhelm’s family were 
destitute, when little Jocelin had pulled his father’s coat 
in vain, one winter’s twilight, and vainly called him to their 
scanty supper of oaten gruel; till the frightened wife had 
come hurrying in, to find the poor scholar dead and cold over 
his Ovidius Naso. Thus the widow of the Master of the 
Schools found herself and her small children in poverty, 
scarcely relieved by a scanty daily dole from the Abbey. 

When Jocelin was eight years old, being accustomed to 
running in and out of the Abbey kitchen for the soup and 
bread on which they existed; what with having lived among 
wandering friars, inferior clergy, and the monks of Bury, 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


5 


his head was full of legends of angels and saints. And one 
night, lying on his little pallaisse, he dreamed that Satan, 
with black wings spread wide, descended before a great 
stone building to fly off with him. Then he cried to St. 
Edmund for help, and the good Saint appeared and took 
him by the hand; whereupon the Devil flew away. His 
cries awoke his mother, and she pondered on the awful 
dream through the night. On the morrow, being a devout 
woman, she took him to St. Edmund’s shrine, that she might 
pray over him and ask guidance of the monks. 

“It was just here that St. Edmund touched me, mother,” 
said Jocelin as they passed through the Abbey gate. After 
some talk with the Prior, little Jocelin was admitted into 
the Abbey and left by his mother, as was young Samuel 
of old; and thus, at the age of eight he renounced “the 
world, the flesh and the DeviJ.” 

“Ah,” mused Brother Jocelin, leaning his head on 
his hand, “such a dream was easily interpreted by the 
monks.^ Otherwise, I might now have been bearing arms 
under Sir Adam, a right valiant squire, instead of dreaming 
over an antiphonary, a vapid monk; and who knows if 
fortune and St. Edmund had not interfered with my fate, 
but I might ha ve'^ borne my grandsire’s Norman crest 
upon a knightly shield?” 

“But,” (hastily crossing himself, as he glanced at the 
crucifix with its warning text), “doubtless the brethren 
were right. Diabolus, with out-spread wings was the pride 
of life, the pleasures of this vain world, ^Voluptates hujus 
sosculi,^ which would have borne me — who knows whence, 
if St. Edmund and the Prior had not made a monk of me!” 


6 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


And he sighed, as he laid by his unfinished task, for the 
shadows had lengthened as he mused, and ere he had set 
his painting tray to rights, the refectory bell summoned 
him to the evening meal. 


CHAPTER II. 


“At the meal we sit together 
^ Salve tibi ’ 

I must hear wise talk 
Of the kind of weather, 

Sort of season, time of year. 

What’s the Latin name for parsley?” 

The refectory was a noble wainscoated hall, lighted 
from above, with a stone bench around two sides. In 
front of the arched entry door, above the wainscoating, 
was a pictured Christ, to which, on entering, Jocelin made 
the usual obeisance. At the left of the hall was the ambry 
where stood the massive golden grace-cup, and nearby 
was the niche, wherein were kept the ewer and basin with 
which the novices laved the hands of their elders. 

A great table stood in the center of the room, with a 
smaller one near the window, through which food was 
passed from the kitchen. On one side was the Bible- 
stand where, as Jocelin moved to his place near the head of 
the table, a blushing young novice was reading the evening 
lesson, in very bad Latin. 

Lent was over, and the table was therefore bountifully 
spread with oaten cakes, wine and huge trenchers full of 
a smoking stew. “Made of my pet calf,” mumbled John 
O’Dice, as he shook his white head over the portion served 
him in a burnished platter. 

“By our Lady, the Sub Prior hath a most infidel spite 
at me. Brother Tristian”, (this to a little weazened monk. 


8 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


with sallow face, and red wisps of hair bristling around 
his tonsure), “never was special favorite of mine in the 
cattle pen but that he sendeth it to Richard of Hennan to 
butcher, an’ right glad Ric seems to do it, ” (scowling at 
the burly Richard, who sat farther down the board wield- 
ing his knife as if it had been a cleaver). Pale, sneering- 
faced Brother Walter broke in peevishly, “Now, now, 
John O’Dice, thou’rt ever grumbling at naught. For 
what dost thou tend the Abbey herd save for the very end 
which befell thy calf? It makes a savory mess, in truth, 
and methinks I would scold less, or eat less.” 

These low-voiced remarks were covered by the drone of 
the reader’s voice, being subdued in fear of reprimand 
for speaking while the lesson was under w’ay. Jocelin, 
(because he was the Prior’s favorite) sat at the Sub Prior’s 
right hand, and though that worthy saw fit to reprove 
the young monk for tardiness, several special dishes were 
sent to him; and indeed there was much passing of food 
from the Sub Prior’s end of the table to the eaters farther 
down the board. 

The meal was presided over by an aged monk. He 
directed the novices in their serving, and when they had 
passed the trenchers and filled the cups, they seated them- 
selves at their own table, to sup of what remained in the 
dishes. 

The Sub Prior, a pretentious ignoramus^ desirous of 
making a show of learning, entered into a conversation 
with Jocelin about the flowers he was painting in 
the Missal; miscalling them frequently, confusing their 
botanical names, and Jocelin answered him but 
absently, being still in the muse into which he 


BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


9 


had fallen over his work. But the Sub Prior was satisfied 
with his display of erudition, and did not notice the in- 
attention. When he had concluded, Jocelin roused himself 
to inquire of the condition of Abbot Hugo, who, grown 
blind and old, kept his chamber in Bradfield house. 

‘‘My young frere, he grows no better,” answered the 
Sub Prior, “and I fear me things fall worse and worse 
for our house. Debt increases. The Jews refuse to ad- 
vance more moneys, (save at ruinous rates), and alas, it 
seemeth to me that those of the Father’s household are but 
flattering time-servers, who, beguiling him with lies, profit 
by his infirmities.” (In a lower voice he went on). “We 
loose our power in St. Edmundsbury — our own Stowe; 
an’, by our Lady, ’twas only yestermorn when our Cellera- 
rius, trying vainly to collect the repselver, was forced to 
seize (throughout all the town) stools, kettles, or house- 
hold wares, in lieu of the refused reaping penny. And 
beshrew me an’ he was chased, yea, my brother, chased 
through the streets by a crowd of yelling beldames, who 
belabored him most soundly with their distaffs. Ora 
pro nohis\ We are coming upon bad times. Twenty 
years agone their hag heads would have graced the town 
walls, for such resistance of our Lord’s authority. The 
field-husbandry are short in their rents to the Reve, the 
dyers and weavers pay but a small tithe of their allotted 
tax, and even the fund for lighting our holy Saint’s shrine” 
(crossing himself as he spoke) “falls short of that of last year. 
Yea we are coming upon bad times, as thou may’st see; 
though certes, on thy young shoulders falls little of the 
burden which resteth on mine!” And the Sub Prior 


lO 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


nodded his leering head, and squared his fat shoulders 
pompously though, in fact, he had nothing whatever to 
do with the administration of the Abbey affairs; his duties 
being limited to a certain guardianship of the Scriptorium, 
and the seneschalship of buttery, kitchen and refectory, 
shared in common with palsied old Hugh, the third Prior. 

“Has Brother Samson not yet returned?” asked Jocelin. 

“Ah, the Norfolk Barrator! He lies in the tower where 
our Lord Abbot hath sent him. Didst not know that he 
failed in his mission to Rome, and that Geoffrey Ridel 
hath been given the Woolpit church? He sits there in 
foot gyves awaiting the Abbot’s pleasure, and there are 
whispers of banishment to Acre.” The Sub Prior detailed 
this news with peculiar relish, for Brother Samson was 
unpopular with most of the easy-going, careless monks, 
being an austere, taciturn person, who exhorted them, to 
less self-indulgence, and who condemned openly (as most 
of his brethren did in secret) the ruinous policy of the 
Abbot. 

Hugo had tried in vain to overawe this stern critic 
and had punished him more than once to subdue his haughty 
spirit. Then, to placate him, he made him Sacristan, and 
finally Librarian, but Samson, perfect in the performance 
of these functions, neither thanked him, nor ceased 
denouncing the bankruptcy of the Abbey. 

“A doubtful man,” querulously said the infirm old 
Abbot to the Prior. “Severity cannot break, nor kindness 
soften him.” So they sent him to Rome, and having 
failed in his mission, he was punished in the arbitrary 
manner of the times, But whatever he might be to Abbot 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


II 


and monks, he was the beloved master of Jocelin’s school- 
days and he received the Sub Prior’s news with lowering 
brow, eating no more of his goodly food. As soon as the 
meal was over, and the monks had marched from the 
refectory, singing a psalm, he seized his unemptied cup, 
and poured the wine into his leathern flask; then placing 
it with some food in his wallet, he went into the garden. 
Taking his way furtively in the flower-scented twilight, 
falling about the great stone buildings, (where bats 
flitted in and out the turrets, and owls hooted softly 
from some far off bell tower), Jocelin walked for some time, 
and then climbing cautiously, he mounted the Abbey wall, 
and, some yards farther, came to the prison. The 
vesper bell had begun to toll, as he swung himself lightly 
against the tower, and by getting a perilous foothold on 
projecting stones, aided by a sturdy creeper which wreathed 
its front, he at last raised himself to the level of a deep- 
set, grated window. 

“Brother Samson,” he called, but there was no answer, 
save the deep breathing of a sleeper, which told that the 
worn-out traveler had thus forgotten failure and punish- 
ment. Taking the food and wine from his wallet, Jocelin 
pushed them through the grating, and scrambling down, 
was soon back in the Abbey chapel, leading the droning 
vesper chant; his mellow notes rising high and clear above 
the rougher tones of the brethren in the Maria” 


CHAPTER III. 


“Death, with frosty hand and cold, 

Plucks the old man by the beard.” 

The inmates of the Abbey, roused from their slumbers 
by the tolling of bells, were assembled in their various 
chapels at the Nocturnal service. The rain was falling 
heavily, drearily, outside, and the drone of the sleepy 
chanters mingled with the low rumble of thunder. As 
the last “Ayne” was sung in the chapel of our Lady, 
the big Abbey bell boomed out solemn and deep. The 
praying monks rose from their knees, and stood looking at 
one another with whitening faces. It was not an alarm, 
nor a call to the church. Slowly, slowly it tolled, ringing 
sadness to every heart, and they knew by its sound, that in 
the stately mansion of Bradfield, the soul of their father 
Abbot had passed out into the stormy night. 

To one man, far off in the cold blackness of the prison 
tower, the Abbot’s death knell brought many and varied 
thoughts. Brother Samson had small respect for his 
superior, for the Abbot was a weak man, of little learning, 
who owed his Abbotship to the favoritism of King Henry, 
and who for many years had governed most inefficiently. 
Samson had no love for weaklings; of Norfolk breed, he 
was possessed of a sturdy strength of character that no 
cowl could subdue. Early entering St. Edmunds as a 
novice, on becoming a monk, he had departed to the great 
schools of Paris, and from thence to Rome, in both centers 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


13 

o! learning, winning fame for his Abbey, and commenda- 
tion for himself. 

At the age of forty-five he had returned, to find Hugo 
in the place of his friend and master. Abbot Gaunarius, 
and the Abbey sunk into a slough of debt; deserted by the 
learned monks he had known, and filled with idle, ignorant 
men. The buildings were out of repair, many valuables stolen 
or lost, and only half of the Advocates, true to their alle- 
giance. The monks feasted and caroused; eating flesh and 
breaking other rules of the order. Rents remained uncol- 
lected; no horsemen were maintained; the whole Abbey 
evidencing the direst neglect and abuse, while its Abbot, 
like a frightened hen in charge of ducklings, tried vainly 
to rule his idle, rebellious monks, finally retiring to 
Bradfield, whence he held lax sway over the disorganized 
Abbey. And deeply in debt to the Jews, who were clamoring 
for their rights at the very gates. Abbot and Prior signed 
paper after paper, reduced the living fund of the Abbey, and 
borrowed more and more each succeeding year. 

So while the bell tolled, the Norfolk monk thought 
bitterly upon these things. “Roger, the Prior, will make 
such another Abbot as Hugo, and I doubt not it is on him 
the choice will fall ; an’ were I out of this vile prison, wherein 
I am so unjustly confined! — But of the dead naught 
but good!” he murmured, and checked his angry musings 
with a prayer for the repose of old Hugo’s soul. 

Loving his Abbey, and jealous of its fame, of aggressive 
nature with great executive ability, Samson was feared 
and hated, and nicknamed “Barrator,” or, “Quarreler.” 
But his ability and strength were not unrecognized. The 


14 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


monks long since had reached the conclusion, by arguing 
from occasional empty stomachs, and knowledge of the 
increasing Abbey debt, that if things were allowed to con- 
tinue on the same basis, no roof would be left to cover 
them, and, forced to become friars, they would have to 
wander over the country, precariously living on alms; 
and the most of them realized that it would take a strong 
hand and clear brain to set things aright. And so already 
the tide was turning in Samson’s favor, when Prior Roger 
summoned the Sub Prior, Jocelin, and some of the elder 
brethren to the Abbot’s house before Nocturnal, with the 
news that the Abbot was dying. 

Just at midnight the watchers around his bed heard the 
aged prelate murmur ‘‘Peace, peace, at last!” And the 
Prior bending over him, found the old man dead, with a 
smile on his face. The body dressed in full pontificals, 
was stretched on a bier, with blazing waxen tapers set 
around it, and the bell was tolled, that the monks might 
know the Abbey of St. Edmund was orphaned. These 
services performed, the Prior and Sub Prior departed, 
leaving Jocelin in charge of Bradfield house; where, sur- 
rounded by weeping servants and praying brethren, he 
passed the night beside the bier; while the Prior sat until 
morning writing the news to various prelates, and digna- 
taries of the church. 

The day broke gray and chill. While Jocelin still 
watched; and Samson mused in his prison house, the 
monks, after Prime, talked in the refectory among them- 
selves of the election of a new Abbot. 

“Now, it seems to me. Brother Tristian,” said John 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 

O’Dice, “that if the Prior is set in our dead Abbot’s place — 
Mary rest his soul! we will go on eating less and less until 
we will die of hunger. The Sub Prior, as thou knowest,” 
with a grimace of dislike over the name, “beshrew me, is 
but an Abbey Lubber, with no more learning than thou 
or I, so what doth our house for an Abbas?” Brother 
Tristian answered slowly, with the hesitating manner of 
one who speaks seldom. His shrill voice attracted the 
attention of the others who stilled their talk to listen. 

“Brother Jocelin remains the only learned one amongst 
us, save Walter, the Medicus. Aye, we are fallen into 
bad times; as the Sub Prior said last eve at meat. I re- 
member when we had ten limners and fifty monks of the 
schools amongst us. Jocelin is the only one fitted for 
Abbotship.” 

“Pestel” ejaculated Brother Walter, “a popinjay of 
twenty! Thou forgettest Samson. St. Edmunds can- 
not be Abbotted by one so young.” 

“Nay, nay,” growled Richard of Hennan, and the 
other monks voiced their approval of his sentiments; leav- 
ing the morning meal in groups of two and three, still 
discussing who should fill the Abbot’s place; while the 
dead man lay decked with jeweled miter and garments, 
the crook in his right hand, and the guttering tapers paling 
about him in the cold morning light. Upon the wall, 
above his bier, was painted the martyrdom of St. Edmund, 
and below this a carved figure of the angel Michael sup- 
porting a scroll, whereon was inscribed in letters of gold — 


i6 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOItE. 


‘‘Earthe oute of Earthe ys wondorly wrought. 

Earthe hath gotyn uppon Earthe a dygnyte of nought I 
Earthe uppon Earthe hath set all hys thought. 

How Earthe uppon Earthe may be hey brought.” 


CtlAPTER IV. 


“For money b’ing th’ common scale 
Of things by measure, weight and tale, 

In all th’ affairs of church and state; 

’Tis both the balance and weight.’’ 

So large were the securities and mortgages held against 
the Abbey by Benedict, the chief creditor, that he, with 
several of his brethren, had bought land from the town 
folk of St. Edmunds, and erected a stone house where 
they could be near their debtors. Here they had dwelt 
for some years, like vultures waiting for a chance to descend 
upon their prey. 

The Jews had suffered long and cruel oppression from 
the people of England in general, and the church in particu- 
lar ; but at last the time had come in which it seemed possible 
that Benedict and his friends could become revenged upon 
their old-time enemies. Becoming aware of the dis- 
organization of the Abbey, they took advantage of the 
general excitement, on the morning after the Abbot’s 
death, to seize upon certain chests of gold, vessels of silver, 
as well as jewels and some rare and precious relics, and 
departing suddenly for London, they declared they would 
hold them until proper indemnity was paid. 

The Prior, in dismay, wrote a lengthy memorial to 
Prince John, setting forth the state of affairs, begging 
that they be speedily allowed to elect an Abbot, and that 
the Jews be compelled to disgorge their plunder. 


i8 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


This missive was signed by the Abbey advocates, lords 
strong in fortress, famous for prowess in war; and was, 
as far as the Abbotship went, a declaration that the monks 
and knights belonging to the Abbey would hold an election. 

This parchment was carried to Prince John one morning 
as he sat breakfasting at his toilet in his chamber in North- 
ampton Castle. He intended going hawking, and the 
delay caused by the arrival of this unwelcome message so 
vexed him that his attendants fared badly, and more than 
one servitor had a rap from his dagger hilt. One unfor- 
tunate varlet received the remains of a venison pasty full 
in the face, with its silver trencher to keep it company, 
because he tied the points of the Prince’s red Norman 
shoes to his garters, instead of to his knees, as was his 
wont to wear them. 

His toilet completed, the Prince dismissed all of his 
attendants save one, a heavy jowled handsome young 
man of twenty-five, rather obese for his age, and dressed 
in the richly furred robe of a Chancellor. This courtier, 
noting his Highness’ ill humor, remained discreetly silent, 
taking up a lute from a bench near by and beginning to 
strum idly upon it (though softly) with his white be jeweled 
fingers. 

John himself had borrowed largely from the Jews of 
whom the Prior’s missive treated, and had shielded the 
family of Benedict, more than once, against the charges 
of St. Edmundsbury; as the Abbey and its knights were 
loyal to the absent King Richard, and the Prince, (who 
conspired with France against his brother), was not sorry 
to see the Abbey’s pride brought low. Indeed, he had 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


19 

cause to fear and dislike the church, for the great Abbeys of 
England, were mighty factors of power, and, joined with 
the haughty, rebellious nobles, resisted and defied John 
and the other Regents, the Bishops of Ely and Waltham, 
whom Richard had left to rule England rather than allow 
the reins of government to fall into his brother’s hands. 
They, however, looking to John as their future King, 
(if his conspiracy with Philip of France was success- 
ful), allowed him to dictate the policy of the government, 
and assume the role of England’s ruler. 

Prince John finally threw aside the Prior’s missive with 
an exclamation of disgust. “By our Lady,” he said to 
his friend and confidant. Chancellor Geoffrey, “If the Lion 
of England would but come again to his lair long enough 
to crush these bickerings, and smite these proud Abbots 
and nobles to the dust, then could I make England such 
another kingdom as that my cousin France boasts of.” 

“But, my Prince, were it not best to pray that the Lion 
would then return to gnaw the Infidel’s bones, and leave 
thee undisturbed to rule in peace?” the other asked softly 
and maliciously. 

John turned his little eyes frowningly on the Favorite. 
“Thou viper, whom I took unto my breast from the convent 
dunghill whereon thy mother reared her king’s brat, needest 
remind me that I am not yet kingl That I must still bend 
subservient knee to the preading brigand whom foul for- 
tune hath made England’s ruler?” 

Geoffrey’s face reddened at the insult, but he bit his 
lip, and affected to hum a song to his lute strumming. His 
mother, Rosamund de Clifford, when driven by the Queen 


20 A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 

from the royal manor, where she held sway over the heart of 
Henry, had retired to a Priory near St. Edmundsbury, 
and here had reared her son. Becoming in course of time. 
Prioress, and gaining great fame throughout the country 
for her virtuous indignation and duress against fragile 
females. When her son became too old to remain in the 
convent without scandal, Rosamund sent him to the Abbey 
schools, and, in lack of any other career, (for no great 
noble would take him as page), she wished to place him as 
novice at St. Edmundsbury, but the Abbot, for political 
reasons, refused to receive so undesirable an inmate, and 
Lady Rosamund was in despair. It was then a courtier 
who had loved her when she was mistress of the King, 
placed him at court as a Herald, under the unpretentious 
name of “Master Geoffrey,” but after a few months, the 
keen eyes of the Queen spied him out; and, exiled from 
court, back he must pack to the Priory; for at the age of 
twenty he knew no more of the profession of arms, save 
for a little fencing, than a lady’s puny page. And thus, 
with Church and Field closed against him, it would have 
fared hard with the young bastard, if Prince John (pride 
and delight of Elinor’s heart) had not become attached to 
him. Finding him with his subservient gayety, ready wit 
and flattering tongue the ideal courtier, he demanded that 
his half-brother be provided for, and as is customary with 
sons of doting mothers, he had his will. Queen Elinor 
forewent her hatred against the son of a whilom rival, 
and Geoffrey was appointed Chancellor. Since Richard’s 
departure, he had ever been at John’s right hand a tutor 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


21 


and a sharer in his excesses, a plotter and go-between; 
the jackal that skulked in the wake of this princely cub. 

Like King Henry in feature — Geoffrey was his mother’s 
true son, — well schooled in his years of seclusion ; though 
the insolent irascibility, inherited from his father, some- 
times showed, dispite him; — as on this occasion. So 
while he sang a roundelay of, “Maidens fair with breasts 
of snow,” he cursed himself heartily for his short wit and 
long tongue. But happily, John was too changeable of 
mood to be long vexed at the one man who could charm 
away that hete noire of Princes, — ennui\ and soon turned 
from the casement where he had stalked in a pet at his 
brother’s inconsiderate reminder, and laying his hand upon 
his shoulder, said; 

“Nay, Geoffrey, I know thou didst not mean it thus. 
I have a very devil in me, methinks sometimes, that 
twists everything askew, and this complaint from the 
Prior of St. Edmunds, with its insolent accompaniment, 
vexeth me sore.” 

“Ods Bodkins! Let the Jew, Benedict, raze the whole 
damned pile to the earth; ’twill but fill his coffers the fuller, 
and thence we can draw shekels to fill our own depleted 
purses. Eh, brother?” 

Smiling at this sally, John continued, “Abbot Hugo is 
dead, and we must appoint another Abbot, though they 
do so boldly declare the right of election; and as the Abbot, 
by right of much fief holding, is among the counsellors of 
the King, beshrew me, Geff, if I wish not now that thou 
hadst become the sniveling novice thy mother would have 


22 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


made thee. And by my troth, thou’st be a mitered Abbot 
on the morrow!” 

Laughing loudly at this, the Favorite clapped the Prince 
on the back, declaring him to be the most “kingly of kings,” 
and they went to mount their gayly caparisoned horses, 
and ride away to hawk, followed by a brilliant retinue of 
lords and . ladies. The Prince was in high good humor at 
the turn his thoughts had taken and soon imparted them 
to the rest of the company, so that Geoffrey continued 
to be addressed all morning by the title of “Abbot.” 


CHAPTER V. 


“The bells tolled out their solemn peal 
For the departed spirit’s weal.” 

On a bier, before St. Edmunds’ High altar, lay the body 
of Hugo. The tapers’ yellow light concentrated around 
the heavy velvet pall which enveloped it, irradiating from 
the golden fringe, until the Abbot seemed already sur- 
rounded by an aureole of glory. The gold and jewels 
that decked the altar and shrine cast back the reflection 
until objects near by were wrapped in a brilliant circle of 
light, surrounded by the darkness of the great church, 
whose dim vistas stretched on either hand. 

Far down the Abbey wall the rising moon peered in 
through the painted window panes; her light separated 
as it fell upon the tasselated floor, into great blotches of 
green and blue, red and gold, by mullions and tracery of 
most exquisite designs. Above, the tall shafts mounted in 
massive pride to spread into carved branches upholding 
the vaulted dome; all showing but dimly, though an hundred 
tapers would not have dispelled the black shadows massed 
there by centuries of nights. Thus in state, Hugo had 
lain seven days and nights, guarded well by his faithful 
monks. Abbot Hugo now no longer, only a pallid, shriv- 
eled old man, who, becoming tired of life’s burdens, had 
doffed the cloak of mortality, and lain down to rest, leaving 
the gauds of human greatness lying idle and neglected 
about his couch. 


24 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


At midnight the Abbey bell began to sound, and the 
watchers beside the bier disappeared into the semi-darkness 
of the side aisles. The great door swung open slowly 
and silently; the organ pealed forth, and up the broad center 
aisle came the Bishop of Waltham in full sacerdotals; 
behind him the Prior, carrying a silver clasped Missal, 
led the long procession of monks who came two by two in 
sable cowls and scapulars and white stoles. Wending 
their way to the altar in a blaze of light (for each monk 
carried a burning taper), and in their midst the bejeweled 
Host glittered like a miniature sun. When the procession 
reached the altar, it opened to right and left, and formed 
two dark wings on either side of the Bishop’s purple-robed, 
lace-draped figure. Then mass was sung with all due 
pomp and ceremony; prayers were said, and from the 
fretted choir above them rolled out the solemn notes of 
the Requiem; while the aromatic smoke of incense envel- 
oped them in a fragrant cloud. When the last notes of 
the chant had died away, the dead Abbot was laid in a 
niche cut in the rock of the transept wall, and covered with 
a slab of polished basalt, whereon was carved his name, 
age and degree, above the miter and crook that his brethren 
before him had fought long and bitterly to bear. 

Thus they left him, to lie through the years, while other 
Abbots came and went, and ever changing bands of monks 
murmured their prayers above his unhearing ears. Slowly, 
sadly, the procession passed, each monk extinguishing his 
taper at the tomb; and, as the last footfall died away, the 
bells tolled out a knell for the departed soul. 

Yet, there was one who lingered there; the Norfolk monk, 


.. BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


25 


Samson, (released from his prison tower), paced long 
beneath the great mullioned window, pondering deeply, 
murmuring to himself; sometimes stretching his hands 
towards the altar, as if he called the Saint to witness some 
vow he made. “The occasion maketh the man,” and in 
a crisis, there is ever some one superior to the rest, who 
steps forward from the ranks and lays his hand upon the 
rein, and men recognizing in him a leader, follow him. And 
Samson, the “man” for this occasion of St. Edmunds’ 
orphaning, swore upon her altar to be a father to the or- 
phaned Abbey: to be its Ahhas Dominus. 

Samson had a few friends and followers in the Abbey, 
(though they had been obscured by the general cloud of 
his unpopularity;) and they saw that his was the only 
hand strong enough to wield the miter, and raise the Abbey 
to power and opulence. So, the next morning, when the 
Prior had summoned the brethren to the Chapter room, 
and had sworn them to deal justly, they duly appointed 
twelve of the brethren to repair with the Prior to Waltham 
Manor, where their Abbot would be elected, and 
Samson was among those chosen. 

When the twelve were counted Jocelin, Walter the Medi- 
cus, and Samson, with the Prior and Sub Prior, and several 
of the elder monks made up the number. Now the Prior, 
believing that the Abbey would never recover from the 
ruinous state into which its affairs had lapsed, had no wish 
to be Abbot. Besides, he desired to pass his declining days 
in Rome, on the residue of the convent treasure left by 
the Jews, (which he had carefully appropriated and con- 
cealed). So, unconcerned, having already applied to tht 


26 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


Pope for office, he presided carelessly, wondering on whose 
head the miter would fall, and he too thought that Samson 
was the only one of them fitted to be Abbot. 

John O’Dice and Brother Tristian were of the twelve, 
and they had little preference beyond desiring that the 
hated Sub Prior was not set at their head. Richard of 
Hennan inclined toward Samson, for he was the only man 
of brawn and bulk in the Abbey, and butcher Richard had 
no standard save “muscle.” 

“Will the Prince permit us to choose whom we will?” 
asked John O’Dice. 

“It is our right and if he does not,” snapped Walter, 
“we can protest and appeal to the Holy Father.” 

“ Ah, I hope we may do this in peace! ” murmured Brother 
Tristian. 

“Nay, nay,” bawled Richard, “we’ll get to arms ’neath 
our Advocates’ banners, and elect whomsoe’er we please 
by force of arms.” Thus many were the questionings and 
disputes, until Jocelin, the youngest of the body, (who had 
hitherto kept modestly silent) spoke: 

“What if we agree not among ourselves?” The electors 
stared at each other in consternation; they had not thought 
of that. They looked toward the Prior, but he was deep 
in reckoning the number of golden cups one could pack 
into a certain oaken chest, and heeded them not. The 
Sub Prior was, as usual, half alseep. Jocelin, tutored by 
Samson, did not try to answer his own question. Then 
the big Norfolk monk said quietly: 

“It seems best to me that we select six, who shall then 
agree on three names secretly; these they shall write an4 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


27 


seal, and not open until in Council with the Bishop of 
Waltham, then they shall be submitted and our Abbot 
chosen from them.” Relieved to have their thinking 
done for them, the simple monks unanimously agreed, and 
left the Chapter house, after having named the Prior, 
Sub Prior, Jocelin, Samson, Walter and old John; 
who easily agreeing on three names, sealed the parchment, 
and the electors set out presently on jennets, and after half 
a day’s ride, knocked at the gate of my Lord Bishop. 

The courtyard was crowded with soldiers, church servi- 
tors and varlets, with an occasional courtier passing to and 
fro, and the cavalcade was the subject of many a rude jest. 

“Here cometh fat black ducks for Prince John’s picking,” 
called one soldier to a fellow, who, stripped to the waist, 
was burnishing his hauberk. The polisher had his mouth 
filled with water, (which from time to time he squirted 
upon the hauberk to accelerate the cleansing process), so 
he made no answer to this pleasantry, save by an inarticu- 
late grunt. But the portly Seneschal, who came forward 
to greet the monks, cursed the jester heartily. 

“God’s malmaison on thee, thou porkl From these 
holy men the Abbot of Bury is to be chosen. In my youth- 
ful days such as thou wore a collar of brass about his neck, 
and was whipped with the dog lash if he but spake too 
loud; but now every popinjay page, and preading foot 
bawleth abroad his fooleries, with none to say him nay.” 
This rebuke somewhat silenced their ribaldry, though 
there was still much laughter over the poor equipment of 
the monks, and the effeminate way in which they drew 
their robes through the crook of the elboyr, 


28 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


The Seneschal led them into a large hall, where a fire 
had been kindled to ward off the evening chill. Here, 
on a dais, was Prince John; behind him stood Geoffrey, 
and at his right hand sat the Bishop of Waltham. All the 
monks bowed low save Samson, who scarcely bent his 
untonsured head: then the Prior went forward, and when 
he had kissed the Prince’s hand, he and the Bishop con- 
versed apart for some time. 

During Richard’s .reign there was no law which necessi- 
tated an Abbot being a Churchman, and as soon as Prince 
John discovered this he decided to give the Abbey to 
Geoffrey. This determination was a blow to the Prior as 
it menaced his plans; for should the Prince appoint the 
ruler of the Abbey, custodians would be sent thither, and 
he would have to give a strict account of all treasure listed 
upon the Abbey books. After some discussion, the Bishop 
spoke to Prince John, stating that the Prior protested 
against an appointed Abbot, and demanded the right of 
electing one of their own number. John at once broke 
forth in a rage. “God’s blood! thou pope — holy monk; 
dos’t beard me? Geoffrey, and none other, shall have 
St. Edmunds ; and a merry life he’ll lead his sons. Geoffrey, 
Ahhas DominusV^ and the idea of the dissipated courtier 
as a father Abbot so amused the volatile Prince that he 
laughed. Then the Prior ventured to beg that he speak 
with him. The Prince motioned Geoffrey and the Bishop 
to leave the dais, and conversed for some time with the 
him, his face first darkening at the Prior’s words, and then 
approving, he nodded his head, and at last, smiting his 
knee^ exclaimed, “By my halidame, ’tis the thing! A 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


29 


fair damsel, a great fief, and a chance to spite my brother 
Richard — I mean to reward my brother Geoffrey.’^ 

In short, this was what the subtle Prior whispered. 
Adam de Cokefeld, Chief Advocate of the Abbey had been 
slain in the crusade against Palestine. He left his daughter 
Rohese and a rich fief to the guardianship of the Abbot 
of Bury. Now De Cokefeld’s brother Advocates would 
refuse to accept as guardian of these riches any Abbot of 
the hated Regent’s appointing; and by electing one of their 
own number Abbot, the monks would furnish a guardian 
satisfactory to them, and, at some future time, the Abbot 
could privately transfer the ward and her fortune to 
whomsoever the Prince should designate. 

“Is this Lady Rohese fair. Prior?” 

“Truly, so they say,” answered the Prior so primly that 
the Prince laughed again, and was in high good humor 
with himself and all the world. He motioned his Favorite 
to him. 

“Here, Geff,” he said, “the worthy Prior offers in ex- 
change for a worm-eaten convent, rat-ridden and wrapped 
in debt, with droning, sniveling monks, the fairest fief in 
the realm, and a maid, Rohese by name — a name that 
brings to mind a red, red rose. Thou shalt pluck this red 
rose, Geff, and pull the tassel of its golden purse. Wilt 
give up being Abbot for warmer temporal blessings?” 

“Ay, that I will; a fair maid, a fair fief, and leave to 
serve my Prince; what more could a poor courtier ask? 
Thou art great and generous, my brother,” and Geoffrey 
knelt to kiss John’s hand. 

“Away, then, to the Council, Sir Prior; marshal thy 


30 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


black flock before thee; and thou, my Lord Bishop, attend 
us to the banquet hall, for, beshrew me, if my stomach 
lieth not it is time to sup.” 

The Prior and monks followed the Seneschal to a nearby 
chamber; that worthy waving his baton with ponderous 
condescension, as if it were some fairy wand with which 
he could bestow the Abbey and lands as he would. 

When they were seated at the great carved oak table, 
and the tapers had been lit in the sconces, no one spoke 
until Samson said, in a voice of command, “Produce the 
names.” Already the man of power stepped forward to 
assume the leadership. Jocelin opened his scrip and 
gave the parchment to the Prior. With elaborate care he 
unsealed it, and read in his high, sing-song voice: 

“Roger, Prior, 

Gilbert, Sub Prior, 

Samson, Sacristan.” 

There was no comment upon the names, save John 
O ’Dice’s contemptuous grunt as the name of Gilbert was 
read. In silence the monks bowed their heads, as the 
Prior repeated the oath binding them to vote fairly. Then, 
one by one, they wrote a name on a slip of parchment, 
(saving Richard, the butcher, and John who unequal to that 
task delegated it to the Prior). Prior Roger then read 
aloud the names. He had received the greater number of 
votes; a few for Samson, and one for Gilbert, (presumably 
cast by that worthy himself), completed the toll. The 
face of Samson was unperturbed, but Jocelin, paled with 
disappointment. 

“My brethren,” the thin voice of Roger broke the silence. 


31 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 

*‘l grow old and weary of service, and I tell ye now that I 
shall soon bid farewell to our Alma Mater and away to 
the Holy City to pass my days in prayer and fasting.” 

“Wantoning and feasting,” murmured the MediCus 
spitefully, having in mind a slip of Roger’s long before he 
had gained the Priorship; to which Walter aspired. 

“So, mez fils, I give you thanks, and tell you that I can- 
not be recorded St. Edmund’s Abbot.” 

After some show of astonishment at this news, they 
fell into a lengthy discussion of it. A set of childish, simple 
men were these, unlearned in the ways of the world, but 
half men at best, as men went in those times ; they babbled 
on to no purpose, finally hailing Samson’s suggestion that 
they ballot again on the two remaining names. This they 
did; and, save Gilbert’s vote for himself, the parchments 
bore the name of “Samson, Sacristan.” The Prior nodded 
his head, and Jocelin’s soft eyes beamed a keen delight. 
Samson rose and made obeisance to his brethren. “I 
thank ye,” he said, his rugged features unchanged; and 
two by two the monks filed into the banquet hall, where 
the Prior made known the Council’s choice. The Prince 
did not lay down the lark’s leg he was gnawing, nor did he 
pause to wipe his greasy mouth upon his gold fringed 
napkin, — “I do as ye desire. Confirming the Council, I 
salute thee, Samson, Dominus-Abbas of Bury. Our Lord 
Bishop I appoint to install thee at thine own appointed 
time. Prior, remember De Cokefeld’s fief, and thou^ 
Abbot Samson, see that thou govern well and snatch thine 
Abbey from the Jews’ clutches,” spitting as he spoke to 
express his Christian abhorrence of the race, “for if thou 


A bottle in the smoke. 


fail I will be upon thee like the wolf upon the fold.” Samsoh 
kissed the royal hand still holding the lark’s leg; 
then he blessed the audience; and heading his monks 
with a stern glance at the Prince which somewhat discon- 
certed him, he marched from the hall to the chorus of the 
fifty-first psalm, Miserere mei Deus'^ leaving the cha- 
grined Prince to exclaim “By the true eyes of God! Me- 
thinks that one will govern the Abbey well.” 


tHAPTER VI. 


“Spite of briar and thistle, 

The old tower 
Remains triumphant. 

Through the darkest hour. 

Superb as pontiff 
In the forest shown, 

Its rows of battlements 
Make triple crown/^ 

The keep of Sir Adam de Cokefeld stood on a wooded 
plateau with the river Lark nearly surrounding it, a natural 
moat for the Castle. Its portcullised drawbridge led to a 
paved courtyard, usually thronged by bearded foot soldiers 
in gleaming, clanking mail, or long leathern jackets and 
buskins, playing at quoits among stacked lances and the 
chargers, which grooms were feeding and rubbing down. 

In the castle hall yawned a fireplace great enough to 
roast an ox whole, and its walls were hung with iron- 
spiked clubs, heavy maces and sheaves of quarrels, with 
their cross-bows. This hall was the entrance to the donjon, 
or keep, where were stored the arms and provisions, used 
during sieges; and from the keep an iron barred doorway 
led into the living apartments, which opened upon a turfed 
balium, one side of which was faced by the chapel and 
soldiers’ quarters, backed by walls of great height and 
thickness. 

At Sir Adam’s death, the household of Lady Rohese 


34 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


vainly urged her to seek asylum in the Nunnery near St. 
Edmunds. But her first grief past, she set the keep in 
order and spent the year of mourning in receiving her 
father’s soldiers, who came straggling back, a few at a 
time, from the unsuccessful siege of Jerusalem. With the 
protested aid of her Seneschal, Gilbert O’Dice, she col- 
lected her rents and governed her people well. Though 
her chief vassals and tenants were much scandalized, 
when on the day of judgment they assembled in the castle 
hall, and found the slim figure of their lady in the great 
judgment chair, with her maids behind her and old Gilbert 
at her side, wringing his hands that a woman should dare 
to sit in the seat, whence the long line of De Cokefelds had 
governed so well. But the maiden judge went calmly 
about her business, and settled a dispute between two 
grange-holders in a way that none could demur. 

Thereafter she had gone on somewhat laughed at by her 
father’s brother knights, and a great scandal and horror 
in the eyes of their ladies. “ She can read^^ Bishop Riddel’s 
^ister Alicia exclaimed to her friend and gossip, the Lady 
of Clare. “An’ Latin, too, like a monk, by my troth!” 
answered the other. 

“ The maid will come to no good end. God ne’er intended 
woman to aspire to the intellects of man.” And they nodded 
their heads sagely over their posset cups for they often 
spent the night together when the good Bishop was away 
on some expedition with my Lord of Clare. 

But, the maiden holder of the keep went on her way 
oblivious of praise or blame, a just ruler of her people; 
loved by all and worshipped by her soldiers; though her 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


35 

maids often whispered to each other that their lady had 
never smiled since the news of Sir Adam’s death. 

“But ’tis not all from mourning our Lord,” said 
Mary, eldest and favorite of the attendants, as they sat in 
the lady’s bower one rainy autumn morning, “I have 
lived with Lady Rohese since we two were babes together, 
for is she not my foster sister? And well I know what 
page it was who played oftenest in our Bower. Henry 
Leicester, Sir Adam’s ward, would leave many a hawk 
unflown to play the lute as we sat at our needles; and 
grown older — a gallant squire, he still wore her glove in his 
cap. An’ by our Lady! maids, did I not go with Sir Adam 
and Lady Rohese to St. Edmunds, where two years ago 
she fixed the spurs upon young Henry, and gave him his 
knight’s helmet, with her colors in the crest? Then Sir 
Adam laughed, as the two looked long upon each other; 
an’ blushing, looked again, as if they could not cease, and 
said to my Lord Abbot, — ‘ Dominie, there will be nuptials 
in St. Edmunds when this popinjay comes back from the 
wars and takes up his inheritance.’ An’ then, maids, ye 
should have seen Henry’s face, and how he kissed our 
Lady’s hand, an’ how she pulled me away; until we ran 
into the Sacristy, that the knights and monks should not 
see how her bosom heaved, an’ her eyes filled. Then she 
fell on my neck and murmured, ‘O girl, I love him; I love 
him!’” 

“And to this day has she never spoken of him?” asked 
Eunice, youngest of the maids, her round blue eyes moist 
with sympathy. 

“Never, poppet. When news came of Sir Adam’s death 


36 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


she turned white and sat for a moment very still. Then 
she asked, ‘And what news of Henry of Leicester?’ 

‘“’Tis thought that he died defending his lord,’ was the 
answer. 

“An’ ’twas then our Lady cried ‘Ah!’ as if an arrow had 
struck home, and pressing her hand to her heart fell back 
in my arms in a swoon — the first of her life.” 

“’Tis like some tale of Arthur’s court,” sighed Anne, 
who was very sentimental, and fancied herself pining with 
love for a certain burly horseman, who knew not whether 
her hair was white or brown, and would give any maid in 
Christendom for one pot of nut-brown ale. 

While thus the maidens gossipped softly over their em- 
broidery frame, the Mistress sat sadly looking out on the 
dreary rain-soaked balium. Her purple robe, with its 
loose wide sleeves, was unadorned, though her white veil 
fell from a purple velvet headdress, richly be jeweled with 
rubies and diamonds. As she sat musing with her 
cheek on her white hand, the maids, their bit of gossip 
done, had a laughing jibe or two at the expense of a fa r- 
haired youth, clad richly in minstrel’s garb, who sat idly 
strumming his harp in vexation, that his Lady did not bid 
him begin his new ballad. 

But Lady Rohese was in no mood for minstrelsy. For a 
long, weary year she had eased her aching heart by attend- 
ing upon the hard duties of her position but now that she 
had learned thoroughly the routine, had systemized all 
the household workings, (to the dismay of the servants), 
and had mastered the details and management of her 
fief, from the collecting of scutage-monies, (paid yearly 


BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


37 


to the King’s exchequer), to the small dribblings of the 
rep taxes into her own; she found time heavy on her 
hands, and many a dreary hour in which to brood over the 
lost father and lover. She was no lily maid — this Lady 
Rohese — left early without a mother, alone with the 
servitors in her father’s keep, his companion at hunt and 
board ; tutored by the master of Ely’s schools, who twice 
a week rode between the castle and the town, to teach 
the little maid who reigned, supreme in Sir Adam’s hall 
and heart. 

So she had grown learned for a woman of her time and 
age. Straight, tall, and lithe as a willow wand; her small, 
auburned crowned head set well upon her tower-like 
neck; — she was formed in classic mould; taper of limb and 
straight of feature, with almond shaped eyes of deepest 
grey, and a generous scarlet mouth opening on teeth as 
white as the carved ivory necklace her father had brought 
her from eastern countries. Her skin was of that clear, 
creamy tint, (just tinged on the rounded cheeks with pink), 
rarely beheld, save in some perfect flower. 

Rohese recalled herself with a start, and looking toward 
the minstrel, said kindly, ‘‘Now, Raoul, let us hear thy 
ballad. May, move my chair to the frame, and I will 
bestir my sluggard self,” and taking up her position in 
the midst of her maids, she began to ply a skilful needle, 
as Raoul, his petulance banished by her smile, struck 
the chords of his harp, and sang to a plaintive air: 

“There dwelt a Page in Castle Clare, 

And O he loved his Lady so, 

And yet she moved so proud and fair — 


38 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


She did not care — she did not know, 

She did not care, nor know. 

It was one morning bright and fair, 

The Lady hawking rode that day. 

And by a dark and deep mill stream 
Her retin ’e took their way — their way 
Her retin’e took their way. 

All gaily decked in cloth of gold 
The Lady rode and cried 
‘Unhood the hawk at yon mill race!’ 

To the leal page at her side — her side 
To the leal page at her side. 

But when her favorite hawk sunk down 
All wounded in the Race — 

‘ Alas ’ — she cried — ‘ my goshawk save’ — 
Whilst tears ran down her face — her face 
Whilst tears ran down her face. 

Then into the deep water sprang 
Sir page, her hawk to save. 

But never rose he from the stream — 

The mill race was his grave — his grave 
The mill race was his grave. 

The Lady she shed many a tear — 

‘That page I’ll ne’er forget, 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


39 


But tell me, Steward, did he save 
For me my precious pet — my pet 
For me my precious pet?’ 

There dwelt a Page in Castle Clare, 

And O he loved his Lady so, 

And yet she moved so proud and fair — 

She did not care, she did not know — 

She did not care, nor know.” 

When the last note rippled away, Raoul sat expectant of 
a word of praise from Lady Rohese, (whilst the maids 
exclaimed at the pitiful fate of the page, and the indifference 
of the lady); but the minstrel was doomed to disappoint- 
ment, for as Rohese lifted her head from the ’broidery 
frame to thank him for his song, the door opened and 
Gilbert O’Dice entered, his meagre little frame drawn to 
its full height, and his weazened face portentious. He was 
followed by a young monk, and announced in a loud 
voice, as he bowed before his lady, “A messenger from 
our Lord, the Abbot.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


‘‘A sworn celebate. 

Whose heart in secret fed upon the light and dew of 
her ripe beauty; 

Cursing, all too late, 

The cruel fate, whose black walls hemmed him in. 

And turned life’s crowning bliss to deadly sin.” 

The minstrel withdrew as the monk advanced, and the 
maids turned again to their ’broidery. Buxom, brown- 
haired Mary; slender, sharp-featured Bertha, with flaxen 
ringlets and paper- white skin; Anne, swart and tall, (a 
Spanish father’s blood showing in dusky face and eyes), 
and little childish Eunice, gentian blue of eye, with one 
long plait of the palest brown hair falling to her knees. 
Dressed in dark, close girdled robes, grouped about their 
lady like so many pretty garden flowers around a regal 
rose, they formed a blooming background to Rohese, as 
she straightened herself to receive the Abbot’s messenger. 
The messenger, Jocelin of Brakelond, paused before them, 
dumfounded, with a missive half extended, gazing at them 
with child-like wonder and delight. Save for the wenches 
of Bury town, he had seen no other woman, and his mother, 
long since dead, was the only lady he had ever known. 
Rohese, though impressed with his appearance, was too 
accustomed to the young and handsome nobles who visited 
her father’s castle, to be moved by even such beauty as 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


41 


the young monk possessed, and she could but smile at his 
evident confusion. 

As he looked at her, as if for encouragement, their eyes 
met, the sparkling grey of the maid, and the somber brown 
of the monk; for a second the grey eyes twinkled with 
amusement, but their long lashes flickered and fell, and a 
blush crept over the maid’s face, for the monk’s gaze seemed 
bent on piercing to her very soul; then his look took 
fire; in a flash it changed to one devouring, appealing 
wooing; latent passion, smouldering unexercised, had 
flashed into flame. Nature had completed her work. 
This cloister-bred youth had found his manly heritage. 
The recognition of sex had come to him, and the man, a 
sworn celibate, loved. 

Of course, there was no analysis of this in Rohese’s 
mind; yet she felt an intuitive alarm and resentment at 
the monk’s long gaze, and modesty, (ever like those timid 
little lizards that tremble at the shadow of a leaf), un- 
furled her banners on the girl’s brow and cheek. But 
quick as it came the blush faded, and she spoke with cour- 
teous dignity: 

“What is the will of our Lord, Sir Monk?” 

Jocelin started at the sound of her voice, like one awak- 
ened from a pleasant dream. 

“Lady, I bring thee a message from our father. Abbot 
Samson.” 

“Samson, say’st thou? I have but returned from a 
stay in Norfolk, and knew not of a new Abbot.” 

“Hugo is long since dead. Madam, and our Abbas 
Dominus, Samson, has for many felicitous months ruled 


42 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


over otir Abbey wisely and well, adding to our number one 
hundred and fifty brethren from Normandy.” 

‘‘Thou art welcome, sir — what call they thee?” 

“Jocelin de Brakelonda, Lady, and the Abbot com- 
mands that I bring back thy answer ere tomorrow’s sunrise.” 

“Truly, ere sunrise. Brother Jocelin? ’Tis far to go 
alone and a darksome way by evening. Yea, I now be- 
think me. Each forest hath its John Scarlet and Robin 
Hood these days, and by my Christendom, an unarmed 
monk would little avail against such sturdy robbers.” 

“Alas, Madam, methinks they would not care for the 
rough serge of a monk’s robe, and I have naught else, for 
poverty is the vow of the Benedictine; yet though I wear 
no mail, and carry no sword, I fear not. God protects 
His own — they need no steel.” 

This doctrine was new to Rohese; reared among men 
whose sole aim in life was war; who learned early the 
motto, “Mine honor and mine good^sword;” and she 
rather caviled at such sentiments, though she could but 
admire the uplifted look with which Jocelin voiced his 
faith. 

“Yet, sunset, or sunrise. Brother Jocelin,” she said, 
‘‘thou must have food and rest; so let us offer thee fair 
water for thy toilet, and a cup of wine and pasty for thy 
stomach’s sake; whilst I read the will of the Abbot, and 
write me an answer to it. Nay, look not so wonderful 
that I should say ‘write,’ for I am not the only woman in 
the realm who can both read and write, and perhaps con- 
strue their bit of Latin, too.” 

‘■By my troth,” she murmured to her maids, as Jocelin 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


43 


followed Gilbert O’Dice from the bower, “but these Abbey 
lubbers are but green goslings — but half men ; and yet I 
would not dub ye dolts by saying he was half made.” 

“Set away the ’broidery frame, girls, and leave me; 
save thou, Mary; bring parchment and inkhorn.” 
Rohese arose, and moving to a desk near the row of windows 
which lighted the bower, sat there turning over in her 
hand the letter sealed with the oval seal, bearing the imprint 
of a steed, (the Abbot’s insignia), and tied with a purple 
cord; her thoughts strayed to the monk and his strange 
behavior, and she murmured, “Now Pardie! I wonder 
what his meaning is?” 

“Perhaps, if thou wouldst open it. Madam, thou wouldst 
know,” Mary said smartly, as she placed the ink and 
parchment on the desk. 

“Tut, thou art pert; get thee gone to thy mates, and see 
that thy tongue prove not the unruly member.” The girl 
gone, Rohese broke the seal and read, in the Abbot’s 
crabbed script: 

“Greeting to Rohese, Lady de Cokefeld: As thou art 
the daughter of my chief Milite, and of my cousin, the 
Lady of Framlingham, it behooves me, now that thou art 
at marriageable age, to give thee in marriage as befitteth 
thy rank and station. Because thou art ward of our 
Abbey, I would that ye come to me that I might know thy 
will concerning thy wedding. Jocelin of Brakelond, who 
bears this missive, will convey thy answer. So I bid thee 
set a time to visit me at Bradfield house. Our Lady’s 
benison on thee. 


44 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


Given under my hand and seal at the Abbey of St. 
Edmundsbury. 

> Samsonis- Abb AXIS.” 

Rohese’s face was scarlet ere she had finished, and when 
done, she flung the letter from her, and stamping her foot 
in rage, cried, “7ounds! And I am to be parceled off to 
some lout, who shall govern my people and rule my castle ? 
Shall any pope-holy Abbot put man into the bed, or at the 
board where Henry of Leicester should have been ? O my 
love! And had not some cursed InfidePs spear laid thy 
proud crest low, I should have been a happy wife, the 
proudest lady in the realm; whereas, now I am the dolour- 
est maid in all Christendom. Parentless and hUsbandless,” 
and laying her head on her arms, she sobbed bitterly. 

Then she dashed the tears from her face; “Yet, let me 
think. How says the Abbot?” taking up the discarded 
letter, “ ’Thy mother’s cousin”. Aye, I have oft heard old 
nurse tell of the rude Norfork baron, who for love of my 
mother, his cousin, sought the cloister. Surely then, if 
this be he, he will not force a hateful marriage on me 
when he knows how my poor heart is widowed. I’ll to 
him, and tell him all my mind. Yet, Abbot though he be, 
let him beware if he cross me; the de Cokefeld will bends 
not.” Rohese blew a silver whistle, suspended from her 
neck, and a page appeared. “Mordred, send Mary 
hither, and tell the monk when he has finished his repast 
I’ll speak with him i’ the balium. ’Tis after the mid hour 
and the rain is past, is it not so?” 

“Aye, my Lady.” 

Mary returned, rather sulky after her mistress/ 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


45 

reproof, but her face soon lost its pout in her delight at 
the news. 

‘‘Mary, we go to the Abbey on the morrow; our Lord, 
the Abbot, hath invited me to visit him at Bradfield house. 
See to it that our apparel is ready, and that Gilbert pre- 
pare fit escort.” 

“Wilt thou take sad colored robes. Madam?” 

“Nay, wench, the gay ’broidered ones, as thou lovest 
me; the Abbot is a man, girl, an’ I’ve a favor to ask of him.” 

Mary smiled appreciatively, and hurried away upon 
her errands. Rohese drew her cloak about her, and 
passed through the arched doorway which led from the 
bower into the balium. The rain was over, the air was 
damply sweet, and the noon sun shone warm and bright 
on the steaming walk. By the keep wall some asters 
were flaunting their purple sprays in the sunshine, all 
rain-bejeweled. Jocelin, advancing up the walk, thought 
she was as beautiful as an angel, as she stood outlined 
by the grey stones the jewels of her head-dress not more 
sparkling than her eyes; her robe, as she stooped to pluck 
a flower, moulded to her exquisite figure. She raised 
herself as he came near. 

“Ah, Brother Jocelin, is this not a day to warm thy 
monkly blood ? See, Dame Nature hath finished her 
family vrash, and hung it out to dry in the sunshine.” 

“In truth, Lady, it sendeth forth a fragrant steam. But 
pardie! why mock at me for being a monk? I am a man, 
no less.” A resentful note quivered in his voice, and 
Rohese saw that her careless jibe had pricked him. 

“Nay,” she said kindly, “I meant no harm; many a 


46 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE* 


lord of the Church hath led his men to victory. Tis said 
that thy Abbot, Samson, fought with my father on the 
field against the Flemmings.” 

‘‘Aye, Madam, so he did. But brute force and fighting 
valor are not all that is desirable in a man. Wisdom, 
learning, gentleness, to my mind, are more to be desired 
than fame in joust or tourney. It will not be many 
years. Lady Rohese, till every man of quality shall be 
learned in our lore, and no one shall be called ‘gentle- 
man’ who hath not this knowledge.” 

“Poor monk,” she thought. “He prates of what he 
knows not,” and resenting Jocelin’s superior air, she said 
rather haughtily, “We have been trained in different 
schools, sir. ^Dieu et mon droit* is, to my mind, the only 
fit motto for a gentleman; yet, ‘God and my book,’ may 
serve thy turn as well. But a truce to these cross- 
questionings; my Lord, the Abbot, commands my presince 
at Bradfield house, and I go tomorrow.” 

“I will bear thy message. Madam.” Jocelin said, 
bowing coldly, for she had vexed and wounded him by 
her open contempt. 

“Yet stay. Brother Jocelin!” she called as he moved 
slowly toward the donjon entrance, reproaching herself 
for her lack of courtesy, and wishing to make amends. 
He turned, and she came up to him somewhat hurriedly, 
her cheeks flushed by her generous impulse. 

“Forgive me if I were rude, and go not from de Cokefeld 
tonight. The way is long, and darkness will o’ertake 
thee. I fear for thy safety in the forest. Delay till the 
morrow, and ride with me to the Abbey.” And she put 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


47 


out her hand and touched him on the arm. Jocelin was 
young, in love, the hand of the woman he loved lay — lily 
white on his sleeve, sending a thrill through his veins. 
He looked deep into her eyes, with a smile like a caress 
on his delicate red lips; then he broke the first rule of his 
order — “ Obedience. 

‘‘Lady, I will not go today. Do as thou wilt with, 
and he hurried from the balium. 

“ Grammacy,’’ murmured Rohese, gazing after him half 
smiling, ‘ ‘ ’tis the strangest monk I ever saw; yet methiuks 
he is a nian after all.” 


Chapter viii. 


“Cast thou thy rosary far from thee, 

And gaze on yonder curl and mole.” 

The morning dawned bright and clear, and Jocelin 
awoke upon a soft couch, as different from his own straw 
pallaisse as his thoughts and feelings of today differed 
from those of yesterday. Through his chamber window 
there came a great hallobaloo from the courtyard; a 
neighing of horses, barking of hounds, and the Seneschal’s 
shrill voice calling out orders. Within the castle, all was 
bustle and preparation. Tittering maids paused in their 
skurry by his doorway to greet some saucy page on his 
way to unleash the dogs. 

Jocelin lay for a moment on his luxurious couch, con- 
trasting the elegant arras-hung chamber with his bare cell 
in the Abbey. 

“There is like comparison to be made of the life of 
monk and knight,” he muttered bitterly, as he donned his 
robe and sandals; “one all bareness, coldness and desuetude, 
the other all light, life and action, crowned by fame and 
love. Love! Beshrew me! What hath a monk to do with 
love? He has taken the Church to spouse, and ’tis a 
deadly sin for him to adulterate his conjugal thoughts. 
Yesterday methought I knew what love meant — a calm, 
sweet regard, strong in affection and admiration; such an 
emotion as one feels for parents, or the Abbot. But now, 
wretched wight that I am, love hath slit me unawares; too 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKK 


49 


late hath he opened my blinded eyes, and vouchsafed to me 
a dazzling vision of his joys. Tantalus’ feast spread to 
mock my unable heart. Love, life’s fire, with hope, fear, 
joy, sorrow, pleasure and pain, its components, hath wrapped 
me in longing and desire, and I — I am so weak that for 
a woman’s smile I cast aside my good respect; break 
my vows, and turn to a chitty-faced coward who trembles 
and dares not look his Lord in the face for fear his 
traitorousness will beam from his sneaking eyes, and 
announce, ‘Here is a monk foresworn — a renegade.’ 
How say the Scriptures ? ‘ Whosoever hath looked upon a 
woman — ’ Aye, I am foresworn. This woman hath be- 
witched me. It is sorcery. 

‘O cam me Jesu 
Nunc libera m^/’” 

And Jocelin fell upon his knees to tell his rosary. But as 
the beads slipped through his fingers he seemed again to 
feel the slight, warm pressure of Rohese’ hand; and with 
every came the tones of her voice, or the tinkling 

of her coldly sweet laughter. The monk was betrayed 
by the natural man within him; and as he arose from his 
fruitless endeavor to pray, and passed from his chamber, 
he realized with shame and delight that his heart beat 
faster, his pulse throbbed quicker, his eyes shone brighter, 
and his whole being seemed reanimated, enlarged, made 
stronger, more ready to do and dare, by this mysterious 
baptism of “Heavenly fire which men have called love.” 

When Jocelin had broken his fast in the great hall, he 
went out into the courtyard, where the retinue was already 
assembling, impatient to be gone; the dogs straining at 


50 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


their leashes, baying their delight at the prospect of a long 
scamper over hills and downs. Raoul, his gorgeous 
dress half covered by a cloak of green and gold brocade, 
a feathered cap on his head, was on his horse, with a hawk 
upon his wrist; and Mordred, the page, behind him 
on a pillion, holding his harp carefully wrapped in a, 
samite covering. Gilbert O’Dice was mounting a 
gentle old mule, grunting and groaning as he drew his 
furred cloak about his old limbs. 

“Good morrow. Brother Jocelin,” he said; “Zounds, but 
the air nips keenly; it benumbs the limbs.” 

“Nay, old shrew, not if there be blood in them,” inter- 
posed Nicholas, the Master of horse, from among his 
twenty odd horsemen who sat mounted with lances at 
rest, while behind them were half a score of foot soldiers 
armed, some with bows, and some with guisarmes; all 
grinned at this sally, for Gilbert O’Dice was no favorite 
in the household. 

“Yea,” said Raoul, in his clear, boyish treble, “we all 
well know that Master Gilbert hath sawdust for blood, 
and dull Sheffield whittles in place of bones.” This had 
reference to the fact that Gilbert presided at the retainers’ 
table, cutting the meat. The Seneschal moved uneasily 
in his saddle, and looked wrathfully from one tormentor to 
the other; but reinforcement now appeared in the person 
of Mistress Mary, who came forth from the keep, bustling 
and rosy, in blue kirtle and hood, bewitching the hearts 
of all beholders. 

“At least, varlet,” she said sharply to Raoul, as she 
superintended the strapping of a huge bundle upon a 


A BOTTLE m THE SMOKE. 


51 


Sumpter mule, “at least, Master Gilbert hath not two left 
legs and Judas-colored hair, as have some jack puddings 
we ken of.” 

This thrust went straight home, for Raoul was slightly 
lame and possessed that red hair accredited to the betrayer 
of our Lord. So the discomforted young minstrel sat 
biting his lip, with tears of rage and mortification in his 
eyes while loud guffaws resounded through the courtyard 
at this sally, and Mistress Mary, well pleased with her 
retort, went forward with smiling face to greet her mistress, 
who just then emerged from the doorway of the castle, 
wrapped in a pelisse of grey rabbit skin over a red gown 
of richly brocaded satin. Rohese went up to her palfrey, 
which, hung with cloth of gold, stood near by neighing 
with joy at sight of his lady. She laid her jeweled ’broidered 
glove lovingly upon his mane, and declining the proffered 
aid of Master Nicholas, turned a dazzling glance on Jocelin, 
who stood staring, awkward, not knowing what was ex- 
pected of him. 

“Mary’s eyes!” exclaimed the impatient beauty, frown- 
ing haughtily, “Art flesh and blood that thou standst there 
dumb and still as a stone? I tell thee. Sir Monk, belted 
earls hath sued for such a privilege.” 

“Gosling,” whispered Mary, giving him a dig in the 
side with her rounded little elbow, “lift her to the saddle.” 
Jocelin, with blazing face, lifted the soft fragrant burden 
in his arms with a contrite murmur, “I did not know. 
Madam,” and as for one blissful moment its sensuous 
sweetness brushed his breast, he felt that heaven could 
give no greater joy. Rohese, seated in the saddle, relented 


5 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


when she saw his face, and dimpling with smiles, extended 
her hand graciously. 

“Well-a-day, of course thou didst not know, thou cell- 
bred fellow. I forgot me thou hast never been to court, 
nor learned aught of chivalry. Mount, Brother Jocelin, 
and ride beside me.” Jocelin, with a pang of humiliation 
at the lowliness of his steed, mounted his mouse colored 
jennet; and Mary being swung up with right good will, 
behind Master Nicholas, with a very small protesting 
squeak against the undue pressure that burly squire brought 
to bear upon her rounded waist; the train moved through 
the portcullis and down the path leading to the ancient 
Roman roadway, which wound through Suffolk, close 
by de Cokefeld castle, and led almost direct to St. Edmunds- 
bury. At its head rode Rohese and Jocelin, followed by 
Gilbert, Nicholas and Raoul. On either side the horsemen 
trotted, the foot soldiers bringing up the rear, with several 
pages, who often broke away from the cavalcade into the 
copse to join their hounds^ exciting chase after some skurry- 
ing hare, and Raoul too, sometimes lagged behind to fly 
his hawk when prey was sighted. 

The autumn sunlight fell athwart the roadway as they 
passed, glowing upon the motley hues of their dress, and 
gleaming upon gold, silver and steel, until silhouetted 
against the dark woodland, the gay company moved 
like some bright pageant illumined by a master hand 
upon a russet background. As they rode, Jocelin had 
much to do to keep his jennet by Rohese’s side, but 
she kindly restrained her palfrey; and falling behind the 
others, they moved slowly, deeply engaged in conversation. 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


53 


Whilst ever and anon Mistress Mary, from her pillion 
behind Nicholas, looked backward with many an arch 
smile and nod at her lady, as if to say, ‘^On to it. Madam; 
make him curse the day he took monkly vows.” But to 
do Rohese justice, she thought not of conquest, and what- 
ever coquetry she displayed toward Jocelin was but that 
inherent preening and perking all creatures of her sex 
naturally fall into, in the presence of the male of their 
species; and if her voice took on a softer tone, and her 
blushes came and went under the ardent glances of her 
companion, she was conscious of no desire to attract or 
enthrall one whom she could consider neither eligible nor 
desirable either as suitor or admirer; indeed, she felt for 
the young monk a kindly condescension one feels towards 
a child, mingled with a touch of reverence, in which his 
calling was held by women of the times. 

Thus their intercourse was dangerously sweet, for Ro- 
hese, throwing aside the hauteur of a dowered lady, and 
the jibes of a maid familiar with the extravagances of 
chivalry, fell into a simple, joyous mood, as seductive as 
it was insignificant. And poor Jocelin, whilst marveling 
at her wit and evident knowledge of things he knew not 
the existence of, could but thrill at her warm tones and 
friendly glances, and fall more in love than ever. 

St. Edmunds was but a day’s journey from de Cokefeld 
castle, and the cavalcade, after a short noon rest, pressed 
briskly onward, until at sunset they wound down the chain 
of chalk hills which surround St. Edmunds; past several 
granges, skirting the village wall ; and the forest behind the 


54 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


Abbey. As they passed beneath the prison tower, Rohese 
asked: 

“What is yon grim turret?” 

“The Abbey prison, Madam,” Jocelin answered, and 
as the two rode by, its shadow lay across them in the fast 
gathering twilight. Rohese shivered. 

“Doth its shadow not strike a chill to thy marrow?” 
she cried, urging her horse forward as she spoke. 

“Yea, Madam, it would, were thou not beside me. 
Cold and darkness cannot abide where thou art.” Rohese 
did not answer him save by a look half chiding, half 
approving. 


CHAPTER IX. 


“What can you not do 
Against lords, spiritual or temporal, 

That shall oppone you?” 

The afterglow shone golden through the laced branches 
of the forest, and within the Abbey walls a bell rang, mel- 
lowed by the distance. The monk and maid rode on in 
silence. Behind them, the cavalcade indulged in inter- 
change of speech and song, but Mistress Mary leant on 
Nicholas’ broad shoulder fast asleep, and he, for fear of 
losing so pretty a burden, spoke not to his companion, 
the Seneschal; who jogged on, numbed, cold, and drowsy 
with his long ride in the keen air. 

The glow of the sunset faded ; shadows gathered about 
their pathway, faint stars shone in the greyblue of the sky; 
and a hush seemed resting over all the world, as if each 
creature had sought its nest, its den, or home; and lay there 
close curled, or sat there by the cheery hearth fire, basking 
in domestic love and its homely joys. This thought was in 
Jocelin’s mind as they rode so close in the narrow dusky lane, 
as he watched the graceful swaying figure beside him. His 
heart yearned for the cheer and warmth of a home; the sooth 
ing touch of a woman’s hand, and that pride and joy of pos- 
session which fills and thrills a father’s heart as he watches 
his wife with a child upon her bosom. So intense was his 
gaze that Rohese felt and resented it, and turned upon him 
with a half frown knitting her white brow ’neath its dusky 


56 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


hood. Jocelin, moved by that frown, broke forth with sup- 
pressed passion, 

“Nay, Madam, frown not on a poor shaveling, who but 
seeketh to imprint thine image on his starved, and empty 
heart!” Startled at his vehemence, Rohese shrank from 
him, and turned her horse toward her companions. But 
Jocelin had no opportunity to say more, for around the 
angle of the Abbey wall came the gleam of torches, and 
the rattle of accoutrements, and Abbot Samson, silver 
cross in hand, accompanied by attendants, came toward 
them. He rode a large black mule, with gilded bridle, 
and saddle and housings rich in jewels, which sparkled 
in the light of the cressets. The Abbot sat his steed well; 
a portly martial man, with ruddy face, piercing, bushy- 
browed eyes, and eagle beaked nose, with grizzly russet 
beard falling upon his purple gown, over which he 
wore a rich fur cloak clasped with one blazing male 
ruby set in gold. 

Jocelin drew rein like one stunned at this unlooked-for 
appearance, and Rohese and her train did likewise. The 
Abbot’s face was stern, and his eyes gleamed angrily be- 
neath their pent brows. But Rohese, undismayed, bent 
low in her saddle at his “Benedicite,” and in smiling 
sauciness cried out, “Goden, our Liege; and Holy Father, 
what came ye forth to seek?” The Abbot started at the 
sound of her clear young voice, and glancing at her lovely, 
merry face, his brow cleared, and he answered in a 
tone he meant to be kindly: 

“Madam, I find a fair vassal where I sought a dis- 
obedient monk!” Here he darted a lightning glance at 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


57 


Jocelin, who shrank under its rebuke, and drew back into 
the shadow of the trees, murmuring, “A renegade! a rene- 
gade!’’ 

“Had thy vassal e’er seen thy kind face, my Liege, she 
would not have tarried over night to prepare such poor 
woman’s gauds with which she sought to win favor in the 
sight of her dread Lord,” answered Rohese softly, moving 
her horse to the Abbot’s side, and meekly bowing before 
him that he might touch her head in blessing. 

“It was not needful, my daughter,” smiled the Abbot, 
“the swan needeth to borrow no feathers,” and he took 
her rounded chin in his hand, and looked straight into 
her clear eyes. 

“Thou art somewhat like thy father, child, but thou 
hast thy mother’s own look in thine eyes,” and he kissed 
her gravely on the brow, with a muttered blessing and a 
half suppressed sigh; and Rohese looked trustingly into 
his strong face, and felt that here she had found a shield 
and a buckler for her orphaned heart, with intuitive 
wisdom realizing the advantage she had gained 
over any possible suitor, in rallying so strong an ally; and 
she murmured to Mary, who had now drawn near, with 
Master Nicholas and Gilbert, “Puppet, we’ll wed no man, 
save at our will.” 

When the Master of horse and Gilbert had been received 
by the Abbot, the former fell behind with Rohese’s atten- 
dants, and Jocelin, of whom none took notice, spurred his 
jennet among those of his brother monks, and rode with 
them to the Abbey, giving scant answer to their eager 
questionings. 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


58 

The Seneschal rode up beside John O’Dice, his brother, 
and after a fraternal greeting, the monk, nodding his head 
toward Jocelin, asked, “And what delayed the youngster?” 

“Some woman’s frippery stayed our lady. Brother John, 
an’ the monk tarried to escort her, at her command.” 

“Aye, it’s not the first time monk tarried at the command 
of rosy lips, Gilbert,” chuckled the other, with a dig in the 
rib of his less robust relative which nearly unseated that 
worthy. 

“How now, ye Abbey lubbers grow rough!” he protested 
peevishly. When he had righted himself again, he queried : 

“But the Abbot seemeth wroth. Is it the way of him 
to so rage at such a small disobedience?” 

“Nay,” answered the monk, “our father ever ruleth 
his anger; but for some reason, he willed not thy lady at 
BEadfield now, and Jocelin should have returned to the 
Abbey ere his Highness, the prince, had come. But this 
delay of a few hours, the unlooked for coming hence of 
the:Lady, and the untimely arrival of the prince and Queen 
mother, hath sorely discomposed his Lordship.” 

“ What 1 the Prince and Queen at the Abbey ? Zounds ! ” 
And old Gilbert straightened himself, involuntarily, in the 
saddle. “By the death of the saints, John O’Dice, then 
wc really are going to court ? ” 

“ Yes, oldster, an’ a right grand sight it is, for our Abbas 
Hominus kcepeth open house, more like unto some rich 
and mighty lord, to my mind, than the superior of a handful 
of sack-clothed brethren.” 

But their gossip was brought to an end by the arrival 
of the cavalcade at the gate of the Abbot’s house; here the 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


59 


porter opened to their knock with a ready ‘^Benedicite,’* 
and the monks entered and dispersed to their various 
quarters. 

The Abbot and the rest of the party soon arrived ; the 
brothers* Hospitlar came forth and the steeds disappeared 
as if by magic, Rohese’s train gladly following a good 
brother to the refectory. 

must make mine excuses, daughter,” said the Abbot, 
“for not receiving thine henchmen, but indeed the hall, 
parlors, chambers; yea, even the butteries arid kitchens 
of Bradfield house are thronged like a beehive, for Prince 
John and the Queen have large retinues.** 

“Ah, Madam,** whispered Mary, giving her lady*s arm 
a squeeze, “perhaps *tis the prince himself the Abbot 
intends thee for. By our Lady, thou art good as queen 
already.** Rohese only shook her head at her irrepressible 
tirewoman, but a red spot glowed on her fair cheek, and 
there was a flash in her eye which boded little good to the 
husband forced upon her, be he prince or peasant. 

Surrounded by bowing courtiers, the Abbot led his 
ward up the marble steps into the arched vestibule of 
Bradfield house. They crossed a great hall; it was 
eighty feet long, with three aisles, and far down the vista 
Rohese could catch a glimpse of a dais half curtained from 
the rest of the hall, where the Prince and Queen Elinor 
sat with their lords and ladies about them, whilst music 
and laughter filled the air. 

In the upper part of the hall there was a hurrying to and 
fro of richly dressed servants, pages and gentlemen, and 
a few passing monks, pausing to look on the scene wi|h 


6o 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


wistful eyes. Along the walls on either side were 
brazen sconces holding great waxen tapers, and the Abbot 
signed with a finger, whereon the pontifical ring blazed 
like a tiny sun, to an attendant, who took a wax light from 
its socket, and went before them into the Abbot’s own 
private parlor; a small, but elegant room, hung with purple 
damask, embroidered with the Episcopal insignia. Here the 
Abbot, laying aside cloak, cap and cross, seated himself, 
first drawing a stool near his own chair for Rohese. Mary 
withdrew to the other side of the parlor, and he began in 
a low voice. 

“My daughter, it vexeth me sore that thou art come 
hence this day. Had Jocelin returned as I bade, I could 
have prevented thy coming.” 

“Nay, Father, I did but in courtesy beg that he wait, 
as I was desirous to come at once. Chide me not for an 
unimportant happening ; what mattereth a few hours ? ” 

“ Unimportant ! sayest thou ? ” The Abbot, frowned and 
tugged at his beard. “By my signet ring, Lady Rohese, 
thou thinkest as light of disregarding the wishes of thy 
Suzerain and Abbot as thy tercel would of answering not a 
page’s whistle.” The sternness of his tone somewhat dis- 
concerted Rohese, but wise in her day, she only sighed, 
and looked down upon her folded hands as if to say, “I 
am an orphan maid; ’tis cruel to be unkind to such an one.” 
Perhaps she conveyed this idea to Abbot Samson by that 
mysterious way women have of impressing men without the 
aid of speech. “Be it as it may,” he continued in a milder 
tone. 

“Ah well, man proposeth and woman doeth as she will. 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


6i 


’Twas ever thus; one of the soft and gentle sex will wreck 
a kingdom and wonder if men smile not thereat.” 

“Rohese, the Queen is here, and Prince John, too, with 
his dissolute followers. Think’st thou Bradfield a fit 
place for a maid, so filled with ramagious courtiers and 
pot-leachers ? ” 

^‘Surely, my Lord, her Majesty will give me protection, 
and place me among her ladies?” 

Jesu forbid, my poor lamb, that thou shouldst fall into 
such a wolf den,” the Abbot murmured to himself. “But 
it matters not now; thou art here, and the court is here, 
and we must entertain them with all due ceremony, and 
patience — I must say patience; ’tis enjoined by our order. 
But I like me not their visits,” and the Abbot rose and 
paced the parlor for a few moments, a regal figure in his 
rich robes, far removed from the lowly monk who, travel 
stained, emaciated, naked of foot, and coarsely clad, once 
lay in the Abbey prison. 

“Yet come, come,” he said finally, “thou needst rest 
and food. Wilt sup with me, child, in this parlor ? ” Rohese, 
pleading fatigue, declined, and he rang for a page. 

“Conduct the Lady de Cokefeld and her tirewoman to 
the Gate chamber, and send proper refreshments thither,” 
and mistress and maid, having received his lordship’s 
benison, followed their sprightly young guide through 
narrow corridors up a stair, and finally came to a 
long, low chamber which fronted the gateway. Adjoining 
this were sleeping rooms for Rohese and Mistress Mary, 
and here the page left them to arrange their belongings which 
they found piled there. He soon returned, however, with 


62 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


a small pasty, some delicate tarts and a great goblet of 
hot spiced wine, which he set forth, and with an impudent 
wink at Mistress Mary, and a low bow to Rohese, was 
soon in the corridor outside their door. But ere he went 
whistling away, he paused to say knowingly, with a nod 
toward the hall below them, 

“His Lordship, the Abbot, hath ordered this corridor 
door close barred.*^ 


CHAPTER X. 


“ Prayed the monk in deep contrition 
For the sin of indecision — 

Prayed for greater self-denial 
In temptation and in trial/^ 

Stern as was the Abbot ^s reprimand, and keenly as 
Jocelin felt his displeasure j he entered into a penance 
of a ten days’ fare of bread and water, and banishment 
from the Abbot’s court, almost gladly; for after all, rewards 
and punishments are from within, and the real punishment 
of the young monk consisted, not so much in remorse 
for his disobedience, but for the state of mind which 
prompted it. 

The Abbot ^s rule was despotic. Held in absolum awe 
and reverence by his inferiors, he was obeyed unquestion- 
ably, and served in all humility, as a mighty spiritual ruler. 
As a temporal lord, his power was hardly less great; within 
the four crosses that bounded his wide domain, land and 
water were his; men, women and children his vassals, and 
mighty barons must uphold his standard, and obey his 
mandates, only second to the King’s. 

The townsman paid for pasturage on his commons; 
market men could not sell their goods until Abbey buyers 
picked, and even the Folkmotewas presided over by an 
alderman, who held his horn of office from the Abbot. 

Jocelin’s failure to return to the Abbey was a grievous 
mistake, which by reason of frustrating the Abbot’s plans, 


64 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


bade fair to change the whole life of one for whom the 
monk would have sacrificed everything. But unaware of 
the result of his delay, and in his ignorance, attaching no 
significance to the presence of Prince John at Bradfield, 
Jocelin in his cell, pondered on his stay at De Cokefeld 
castle, and his enamourment of Rohese, until in a few days 
he began to be ashamed, and despised the sudden gust of 
passion which had so bent him. “I am no better than 
a reed shaken by the wind,” he told himself, and finally 
having come to regard the whole happening as a temptation 
of the Devil, he began to liken himself to St. Anthony, and 
become wonderfully uplifted and exalted in spirit. After 
a day of such contemplation and much prayer, Jocelin 
felt that peace had once more come upon his perturbed 
spirit, and he set to work upon a special manuscript for 
the library. Having written the Canticles on a tinted 
parchment, he had begun to illumine a border of pome- 
granates and passion flowers around each page of these 
love songs of Solomon. 

“My fault atoned for by fasting and prayer” he told 
himself, as he painted a royal purple petal. “Reinstated 
in our Father’s favor, I can meet and greet the fairest 
of the land without an added heart beat. Verily 
the flesh is weak, but the spirit is the conqueror.” But 
here Jocelin fell into the common error of inexperience, 
in imagining that any effect ever dies. A misdeed, be it 
ever so small, leaves a scar on the character of the com- 
mitter which time cannot remove. Thoughts and deeds 
write life’s history in indelible characters, which tears 
nor blood can erase. Jocelin also erred in thinking that the 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


6 $ 


flame of passion once kindled in a virgin heart can be 
quenched by any amount of reasoning or pious meditation. 
Love is a natural law, and whoever falls beneath its power 
must work out his own salvation for good or ill. Heredity, 
environment, mental and moral training, may elaborate 
the relations of man and woman, but ever the male will 
seek his mate, and the female yearn for hers, as truly as 
two fluids separated by a membrane will mingle by the 
law of osmosis. 

As Jocelin painted and moralized, he paused to read 
a line of the text. Before the sight of a beautiful young 
woman had wakened in him visions of new possibilities 
in life, Jocelin had often wondered why it was said that 
the Rabbins of old forbade the young men of the syna- 
gogues the reading of the Canticles. Now he knew. Every 
word of the lover’s passionate appeal started forth on the 
page, as if in letters of fire. 

“Thou art fair, my love. 

Thou hast dove’s eyes within thy locks; 

Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet.” 

Rohese’s flower-like face came between him and the 
page again and again, till it so blurred beneath his eyes 
that he could not see to paint upon it; and in despair, he 
threw aside the brush and went out in the garden. 

It was golden mellow day. A few leaves fluttered down 
now and then in gorgeous bouquets of scarlet and gold; 
the trees and sod still retained a tinge of green, and a 
golden haze seemed to mingle and melt into the rich land- 
scape. Yet the sadness of adieu was in the air, as if the 
earth was mourning the passing of the fair summer, and 


66 A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 

the pale blue sky seemed to bend low over the Abbey 
garden. From the forest sounded faintly the dull thud of 
the chopper’s ax, and the acrid, pungent scent of burning 
leaves came from the orchard where Brother Tristian, his 
rough brown robe well kilted above his bare shanks, raked 
and burned the fallen leaves and the long sere grasses, 
droning a plaintive chant as he worked. 

Jocelin paced up and down the walk with bowed head, 
unconsciously keeping time with the dirgelike song 
of old Tristian. His mood of religious exaltation had 
passed into one of fierce rebellion against the existing 
order of things, and a passionate crying out for the joys 
denied him by reason of the oath he had sworn at the 
high altar of St. Edmunds; though the training of 
a lifetime aided him in sternly resisting this new evil which 
assailed him and threatened to uproot its deepest teach- 
ings from the young monk’s heart. “We are betrayed by 
what is false within,” and false or true, this new inclination 
fought against all old ideas and feelings, and when Jocelin 
was most sure that he had defeated it, it threatened to con- 
quer him. Thus he passed to and fro, the warning of the 
singer falling unheeded on his ear — 

“Men are like grass. 

Our lives they pass. 

As swiftly as the river flows 

Love’s flower lifts its dew rimmed head; 

It buds and blooms. 

And then ’tis dead. 

Till all at once we feel a cold, 

Aud know that we are growing old.” 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


67 


But what dreamer or lover ever heeded warning until 
too late, when — the dreams fade, leaving him stranded 
upon the cruel rocks of reality. So Jocelin fought 
the fight with himself; the bitter battle of the spiritual 
arrayed against the natural man, until a brother came 
down the colonnade and called to him; but he was so 
engrossed that the other spoke several times before he lifted 
his head. 

“Jossa, Jossa! my young brother,” cried Walter, the 
Medicus, in a peevish tone, “Where art thy wits wool 
gathering? I have come but late from Bradfield house, 
and our Lord has deigned to forget thy little indiscretion, 
and wills that thou appear in his hall today to attend on 
him. His Highness holdeth court.” 

“Nay, not today. Brother Walter; not today;” impa- 
tiently murmured Jocelin, scarcely knowing what he said. 
“I must pass the time till compline in meditation and 
self-interrogation. I pray thee have me excused for this 
day from attendance at Bradfield.” 

“How now!” exclaimed Walter testily. “If thou 
showeth not appreciation of the Abbot’s forgiveness, thou 
goest to pot. By our Lady, art verily ruined and wasted! 
Our Lord is not a patient man, young shaveling, and we 
oldsters had much ado to bring about this pardon. ’Twas 
by our intercession this revokement was made.” 

“If she had not wished me to love her, she should ne’er 
spoke me so fairly,” muttered Jocelin. “Ehue!” 

“What!” cried Brother Walter, greatly scandalized; 
his little light eyes narrowed to points with curiosity; “what 
sayest thou, my nonos?” 


68 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


This brought Jocelin to his senses. “What say I, my 
frere? I but murmured a line of the Canticles. Depart 
in peace; I thank thee and thy confreres for their interces- 
sion, and will attend on his Lordship anon.” Brother 
Walter trotted away in the rapid jerky pace peculiar to 
him, muttering to himself as he went, “I am little learned 
in the Scriptures, but I vow a candle to our Lady that 
young Jocelin ne’er learned such sayings from the great 
Solomon.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


“A sort of naughty person, 

Dealing with witches and with cungerers.” 

When Brother Tristian had finished his task in the 
orchard, he left his rake in the garden house, and started 
back to his cell; traversing the cloister which faced a stretch 
of the Abbey wall, unbroken save by a postern 
gate. He took a turn up and down the cloister to stretch 
his aching limbs, and as he walked, he talked to himself 
in a low and confidential tone; a habit much complained of 
by his brethren, “He speaks with evil the one, who 
so converseth.” said some more zealous ones who laying 
the matter before the Abbot, asked that their faulty broth- 
er be duly reprimanded. But the Abbot (with a twinkle 
in his eye) replied “If ye converse but with yourselves, there 
will be none to repeat your sayings.” Thus did the father 
rebuke his over-zealous, tale-bearing sons, and little Brother 
Tristian talked to himself unmolested. 

Brother Tristian was head gardener of the Abbey, and 
his soul was in his art. Each garden bed (they were 
neatly made in rows, with graveled walks between) bore 
its name cut in smooth chalk-rock like tiny white grave- 
stones. Onions, garlic, celery, lettuce, parsley, poppy, 
cabbage and carrots were there, each in its appointed 
place. And woe betide the careless assistant who mixed 
the seeds, or misplaced a stone. But the flower plot was 
Brother Tristian ’s joy and pride; and now, that fall had 


70 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


come, and his out-door duties had ceased, he was planning 
a wonderful improvement therein. What this was, was a 
close secret, but the other monks knew that a rush light 
often burned at late hours in Brother Tristian’s cell, and 
he was ever begging scraps of parchment from Jocelin, 
which he covered with lines and figures. Truly “Out of 
the fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh,’’ for as Brother 
Tristian moved placidly up and down the empty cloister, 
he was all unconsciously giving to the autumn winds his 
cherished secret. 

“Now,’’ said he, with one lean little finger extended to 
draw imaginary lines in the air, “around the sundial will 
I plant them, my time-telling plants, and they shall be 
called the * Virgin’s clock,’ in honor of our Lady. Zounds, 
’twill be the triumph of all gardening. First will I plant 
me the Star of Jerusalem; it faileth never, but pops wide 
ope at the third hour to catch the first peep o’ dawn; then 
the dandelion; it unfolds its cloth of gold at the fourth 
hour, and the other flowers, each at successive hours. 
At the fifth cometh my brave hawk’s beard; then the viper’s 
grass. The lettuce uncurleth its leaves at the seventh 
hour. For the next two I will have the Venus’ looking- 
glass (a strange plant for an Abbey garden, methinketh), 
and the creeping hawkweed. To strike me ten I’ll set 
purple juniper; then the Star of Bethlehem. Jerusalem’s 
Star again for, lazy little Jack-go-to-bed-at-noon, it shutteth 
its eyes at midday. To tell the first hour after midday, 
the succory will unfold, then the squill; at the third, maid 
Marigold bares her bosom to the sun. Ah, my beautiful 
flower clock! The Abbot himself will come to see it, and 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


71 


Dunstan of Woolpit will go mad with envy that he be- 
thought him not of such a fair invention.’’ 

“The four o’clock and wall flower I’ll plant to tell the 
fourth and fifth hour, and at the sixth the lovely primrose 
of evening shall ope its delicate petals to the sound of the 
vesper bell. Jocelin of Brakelond may illumine his Missals 
with rare floral counterfeits, but who can make the pretty 
blossoms grow so well as old Tristian? ’Twill be the 
wonder of the age.” 

“Aye, wonders never cease, brother,” said a low, cracked 
voice at his ear, and Tristian glanced up to see an aged 
woman in a scarlet cloak, peering at him through a cloister 
arch. She was very, very old. She wore a close black cap 
with some tatters of a rusty black veil hanging over it, and 
mingling with a few whisps of dry bleached hair, which 
clung round her seamed brow like dead leaves on a branch, 
denuded by winter winds. Her eyes were mere hollows, 
with one glistening point of light far behind their rheum 
reddened lids, as if some wild creature crouched, 
within an ancient ruin waiting to spring upon its prey. 
Her face could hardly be called wrinkled, as no continuous 
lines were set therein; but both face and hands were like 
withered petals of a yellow rose which has been crinkled 
and creased, then parched by the sun. The toothless 
mouth, with its blackened cracked lips, added to her weird- 
ness; as did the great black staff on which she leaned, for 
its handle was cut into a semblance of a cat’s head, with 
yellow jewels for eyes, which seemed to blink at the startled 
monk. 

“Qodamercy! How earnest thou hither^ dame? No 


72 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


woman entereth these walls save by the Abbot’s leave.” 

“Monks and witches have no sex, old frere. An’ I 
wot if thy Abbot keepeth woman out of anything^ he will 
do more than mankind hath done since man’s wife was 
made in Eden. How came I hither? Gramacy, by yon 
postern! Thou wert so bent on extolling thy weeds, I 
entered unobserved.” 

“But that postern gate was close locked, dame. I 
noted it as I passed with its bar well in the socket” stam- 
mered Tristian in dismay, tremblingly running his fingers 
through his scanty locks, which literally stood on end, 
and crossing himself before addressing his dread visitor. 

“Odds heartlings! old shaveling; hath never heard of 
the witch of Ely, who hath but to point her staff at any 
barred door or portcullis, and open it swingeth? And 
now, wight, stand not staring here! ” But Brother Tristian 
only looked at her stupidly, muttering to himself, “A witch; 
a cungerer.” 

“Along with me,” she cried impatiently, striking her 
staff on the stones. Whereupon, it seemed to Tristian 
that the cat’s eyes flashed fire. 

“Whither?” he queried in a faint voice. 

“To Bradfield by some quiet way. I would speak 
with the Lady De Cokefeld.” 

“Why went thou not in at the Abbot’s gate, then? Why 
pounce upon a poor monk with thy horrid staff ? Mary 
save me!” expostulated Tristian feebly. 

“Dolt, did I care to become the gazing stock of all the 
popinjays of two courts? Haste thee; haste thee, monk, 
a secret passage to the Abbot’s house,” 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


73 

“A secret way? I know of no way, save the walk down 
yonder terrace.” 

“Then to the church, old fearful, to the church,” the 
witch of Ely cried, stamping her foot. But here Tristian 
rebelled. Timorous as he was by nature, and much afraid 
of witches, he would not conduct a witch within the sacred 
walls of St. Edmunds. 

“Never! ’Twould be a sacrilege.” 

“Ha, ha; never, sayest thou, sir gardener? Then I’ll 
set a spell on thy flower-clock, and the summer’s sun shall 
never shine, on it. Wither leaf, and shatter bloom, old 
canker blossom.” 

“Nay, nay,” interposed Tristian, now thoroughly terri- 
fied. What was the sanctity of the Abbey to the safety 
of his darling flowers ? 

“Hither, follow me, dame. Quickly, for if I am seen 
with a woman in followance bethink thee of the scandal.” 
This amused the beldame, and she followed his reluctant 
steps with a toothless grin at his disgruntlement. When 
they had entered the church, she walked behind him up 
the main aisle, counting its pillars as she went. When 
they were half way to the altar she paused, and passing 
through an arch, hobbled briskly behind the carved screen 
of pierce-timber work at the north of the choir. Here she 
paused and saying “Farewell, old wight,” she disappeared; 
right into the great carved pillar, it seemed to Brother 
Tristian, but though he searched till the shadows of eve- 
ning drove him from the church, he could find no signs of an 
opening therein and finally left the church and hurried to 
his cell. 


74 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


“Woe is me! Woe is me!’’ he cried continually, beating 
his breast and shaking his head. “The brethren were 
right; in speaking to myself I have communed with the 
evil one, and he hath finally appeared in this guise. I 
have been tempted by the Devil, and have yielded ; Satan is 
turned loose in the Abbey,” and he leaned his head against 
the stone wall of his cell, while tears coursed down his 
sallow old cheeks. “Woe is me; woe is me!” 


CHAPTER XII. 


“Aye, it is He who rides at the King’s right hand 
Draw to the side.” 

JocELiN was chaplain and secretary to the Abbot; so his 
summons to Bradfield was not, in itself, indicative of his 
Lord’s restored favor, for if the Abbot had business with his 
royal guest, he would stand in need of his secretary. So 
Jocelin went on his way unelated at the summons, and in 
much vexation at his carelessness in so nearly revealing the 
secret of his love to the gossip of the Abbey. He passed 
down a terrace, through many enclosures, by divers paths 
into a small yardway, and so, through a private door into 
the corridor on which the Abbot’s parlor opened, and 
entered the room unobserved by its occupants. Abbot 
Samson sat there with the Bishops of Ely and Waltham 
and several dignitaries of the Church, whilst before them 
stood the leading Advocates of the Abbey, the Earls 
Faulkenbridge, Albune and my Lord of Clare, with Earl 
Bigot, a friend of Prince John. The Advocates (as were 
most of the Anti- Regent Barons and noblemen of that time) 
were clean shaven, with hair cut short on the neck; but the 
courtier, like his friend and master, the Prince, wore the 
pointed beard and curling locks, filletted with a golden 
ribband, the court had adopted in contempt of its smooth- 
faced, short-locked opposers. As they stood thus, several 
half-audible comments on Bigot’s attire passed between 
the Advocates; for in those days gentlemen had not the 


76 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


manners which at a later age, made England’s Society 
noted, and, men, like children, (who are the least artificial of 
creatures), spoke what was in their minds with brusque 
freedom. 

“A fur pelisse, like a woman, by my halidame!” mur- 
mured Albune. 

“Thsich!” answered that rugged giant, Faulkenbridge, 
sucking his teeth in disgust. “So pricked and spruce a 
popinjay I have never seen.” If Bigot heard these uncom- 
plimentary remarks, he gave no heed to them; but whis- 
pered from time to time with the Bishop of Waltham, who 
finally, with much hesitation, addressed the Abbot in a low 
voice; whereupon Abbot Samson, rising from his seat, 
exclaimed: “My Lord, I was a soldier ere I was a monk, 
an’ by my good sword and my silver cross, I will don mail 
again ere I humble the pride, or sully the honor of St. 
Edmunds. I’ll not concede away our rights,” and he 
struck a blow in the air as if his clenched hand again held a 
sword. 

“Nay, Father,” expostulated Bigot in a soft, bland 
voice, “the Prince but claimeth his rights. His Lordship, 
the Bishop, tells me this wardship was promised the Prince, 
by Prior Roger, on the day of thy election. Nay, I know 
not if he said not, by Brother Samson himself.” The 
Abbot’s face was red, and he patted his silken slipper. 
“By our Lady, this fellow hints at Simony,” he muttered. 
Here the Bishop of Waltham broke in hurriedly, anxious 
to avert the gathering storm. 

“Nay, my Lord, ’twas the Prior who proffered it; an 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


77 

exchange. This wardship for the right of election.” The 
Abbot fairly bristled with rage. 

“Since when do Priors give our wards in marriage, and 
Princelings elect Abbots? The Bishop of Winchester 
long ago held that the power of king-making lay in the 
clergy, and he proved it, in that he raised Mathilda to the 
throne. Knows the Prince no history? Ye who are 
his tutors teach him illy, methinks. It takes more than 
the instillation of loose principles (which ye have so artfully 
set about) to make a king. Bigot. By my halidame! John 
heaps insult on injury when he demands the hand of 
the daughter of my noblest Advocate for a pander, a spend- 
thrift, a libertine, and last, but not least, by my troth, a 
bastard, without a cross in his pouch.” 

Displeased as the Advocates were by the Regent’s 
demands, they exchanged glances of consternation at this. 
For while many of the nobles of England were opposed 
to Prince John, there were few who would have dared to 
thus oppose and criticize the ruler of the Realm. 

“No head is safe which owneth tongue so hot!” whis- 
pered Faulkenbridge to Clare. 

“Nay, nay, e’en though it wear a mitre,” answered the 
other. Albune was much disturbed and the Bishop of 
Waltham was white with apprehension. Only Bigot main- 
tained his composure; his handsome dark face suave and 
smiling as ever. 

“Surely the ruler of England can command his vassals, 
be they ever so high, Father,” he protested, stroking back 
a perfumed curl which had fallen ac'ross his rosy cheek. 
This was the last straw. 


78 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


‘‘My Lord,” said the Abbot in cold fury, “thou forgettest 
that the Regency lies with the Church; as it is, we owe 
no allegiance to the Regency or the Crown, and of a surety 
the Pope will uphold us in this just refusal. Announce 
to His Highness that we will give him audience when he has 
supped. My chaplain celebrates Vespers in the chapel, 
my Lords,” the Abbot turned his back squarely on Bigot, 
who biting his lips, made a hurried exit, followed by the 
Bishop, who seemed to be mumbling a prayer, as he pat- 
tered after the irate Earl. 

As they supped a monk entered and announced that the 
Prioress Rosamund and three nuns were in the courtyard 
of the palace; having been o’ertaken by night, on a journey 
from Ely, and craved the hospitality of the Abbot. The 
truth was, the Prioress, on hearing of John’s coming and 
her son’s proximity, for the Favorite ever accompanied 
his brother, could not forbear to hasten to him (regardless 
of the presence of the Queen), trusting to her tardy appear- 
ance, and plausible story to gain entrance at Bradfield. 
Jocelin, who from the elder monks, well knew the story of 
Rosamund de Clifford, looked questioningly at the Abbot, 
expecting the peremptory dismissal of this illtimed visitor; 
but the Abbot’s thoughts were not on any ancient quarrel 
of Henry’s wife and mistress; and then too, perchance he 
cared not for any humiliation which the Prioress’ appear- 
ance would 'Cause the Queen and her son. “Why not,” 
he said aside to Jocelin, “The bastard is here, why not the 
dam?” And he gave instructions to admit the Prioress. 

Throughout the meal, Jocelin sat pale and silent, scarcely 
touching his food. Through what had passed in the 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


79 


Abbot’s parlor, he had realized for the first time what 
this visit to Bradfield house meant for Rohese. The 
Prince, in demanding her hand for his favorite, had dis- 
pleased her powerful guardian. Here was a ray of hope; 
but it flickered dimly for a moment, and then flared out, 
leaving Jocelin’s heart all the more desolate for its faint 
glimmering. If this suitor was ineligible, the Abbot, no 
doubt, had others in view. Perhaps Rohese had a lover 
already, for among all the Abbey Advocates, there was 
surely some one for whom she had a preference. The 
thought was as wormwood, and he shuddered at the bitter- 
ness which swept over his heart. Faulkenbridge for all his 
burly frame and forty years, was good to look at, and my 
Lord of Clare had a handsome son, his esquire, famed for 
his beauty and daring. “She is not for such as thou, an’ 
were she free thy oath of celebacy separates thee from 
her,” he told himself. 

The Abbot noting Jocelin’s melancholy, naturally sup- 
posed his young secretary was grieving over his past dis- 
obedience, and as they went toward the audience hall, 
he laid his hand kindly on the young monk’s shoulder — 

“Hast prayed and fasted, my son?” 

“Yea, Father.” 

“And repented thy sin?” 

“Yea, indeed, indeed!” Jocelin answered earnestly, 
touched by the gentleness of his usually stern superior. 

“Then go in peace, my son. God’s benison on thee!” 
And Jocelin, kissing his hand, fell back among the atten- 
dant monks; while the Abbot led the way into the audience 
chamber. But neither blessing nor pardon could give 


6 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


peace to poor Jocelin, as he brought up the rear of the 
procession, with hot eyes glaring fiercely for a sight of 
Geoffrey de Clifford, who had dared stretch forth a rapa- 
cious hand toward the idol set up in his passionate heart. 

Prince John had prolonged his feast unduly, being 
much of a gourmand and careless of the proprieties, which 
demanded his withdrawal from the board ere his host 
arrived. So he now rose with his court, and withdrew to 
his dais at the farther end of the hall, leaving the surprised 
prelate and his monks to pass around the devastated table; 
while all was confusion; monks skurrying to their places 
behind the Abbot’s chair, courtiers hurrying to their post 
around the Prince, and the ladies in waiting gathering 
about the queen. Though, such a slight was too obvious 
to pass unnoticed, the Abbot made no comment; except 
to command the removal of the unsightly remnants of 
the meal. 

Prince John and the Queen slightly bent their heads as 
the Abbot passed them, and he, with extended hand, 
murmured the usual Pax Vobiscum^^’’ though the flash 
in his eye boded little of peace. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


“Through the hushed, admiring throng 
She went with stately steps along.” 

It was a sight worth the seeing — this gathering of the 
noblest and mightiest of the realm. The great, arched 
hall lit by many tapers; shining on the purple and silver 
of the Abbot’s livery; the scarlet and gold of the royal 
household; the monks’ black robes, which but accentuated 
the brilliancy of the jewel-decked courtiers and ladies. 
Prince John’s dress of crimson, falling to the middle leg, 
was gold-belted and a jeweled pendant hung from it between 
his knees. He wore an under tunic of golden cloth, a 
green lined mantle, red hose and collar, and sleeves of 
gold be-gemmed cloth. The Queen sat beside him, a 
stately, portly dame past life’s meridian, her clear dark 
skin but slightly wrinkled, and the strong mind presaged 
by her large dark eyes and Roman nose was fully confirmed 
by the massive jaw and firm unsmiling lips. Her dark 
robes were ’broidered in golden crescents, and the diamond 
diadem glittered in her silvery hair like frost crystals on a 
snowbank. 

Near the entrance of the hall on either side were the 
Abbot’s soldiers, and the royal bodyguard; the latter con- 
spicuous by reason of a great banner, bearing three lions 
rampant, which the cunning hand of Rosamund had long 
ago embroidered for the dead King. 

John was first to break the pause following the Abbot’s 


82 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


entrance: “We cry thee pardon, Dominus, that we dallied 
so long o’er our wine noting not that the hour had passed. 
But if we receive thee not in all seemliness, blame thyself, 
who hath so royally feasted us.” 

“Though something I might ’plain. Prince,” answered 
the Abbot, smiling sarcastically, “’twere passing strange 
should I find myself amazed, for if your Highness remem- 
bers so slight an occasion, you will bethink you that I, as 
elected Abbot of St. Edmunds first kissed the Princely 
hand as it held a roasted lark’s leg.” 

The Prince, not knowing if these words were uttered in 
jest or reproof, hesitated before replying, his cheek flushing 
under its flaxen beard ; then, choosing to see but the humor- 
ous side of the happening, said laughingly — 

“By the rod. Abbot Samson, more than one Prince of 
the Church hath kissed a greezy paw; for methinketh I 
have heard of Abbots who had women-cooks or focariae; 
though, Gramacy, the fellowship stopped neither at 
board nor hearth.” 

“Come,” interrupted the Abbot impatiently, “let us 
speak of weightier matters. Your Highness, by Earl 
Bigot, hath made demands for the disposing of a certain 
wardship.” The Prince turned petulantly to Bigot, who 
stood near with Counsellor Geoffrey: 

“Roger, you spoke me not of this.” 

“My Prince,” responded the courtier with easy famil- 
iarity, “when I sought thee after the Abbot’s audience 
thou wert at table, and forbade the delivery of any such 
rude pratings,” casting a spiteful glance at the Abbot. 

“True, true; I said you nay, I remember, and you pressed 


A fiOttLE IN tHE SMOKE. 


83 


not the matter,” responded John hastily, not anxious that 
the Abbot should hear his disrespectful words repeated, 
“Come hither now, sorry herald, and deliver thou the 
Abbot’s message, though that were useless with his Lord- 
ship in the presence.” But Bigot, who much desired to 
keep peace between his master and the Abbot for a time 
at least, hastily moved to the royal side, and, in a low voice 
gave John a very softened version of the Abbot’s cavalier 
refusal to transfer the wardship of the Lady de Cokefeld. 
He represented the Abbot as loth to surrender so rich a 
wardship and desiring of a fief in another hundred, as a 
bonus for the forfeiture. 

John waved him away — “Pooh, pooh, Sir Abbot, thou 
art right — ’tis a rich wardship, and I confirm thy decision,” 
and ere the astonished Abbot could speak, he went on, “but 
Father, bring forth this richly dowered ward of thine and 
let us see what thou art so loth to part with.” Seeing by 
the Abbot’s face that a refusal of this was imminent, the 
Prince motioned to Bigot who went out. Dumbfounded 
at the good humor with which the Prince seemingly received 
the curt refusal of his demands, Samson answered more 
gently than hitherto. 

“I pray thee, your Highness, have ye my ward excused. 
The maid is unaccustomed to courts, and would be discom- 
forted at appearing before such a great company. Besides, 
what mattereth her appearance to thee?” 

“By the blood!” exclaimed the Prince with a sly glance 
at Geoffrey, “Should I not wish to see my sister that is to 
be? Zounds, if she be fair. I’ll salute her right brotherly.” 


84 A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 

“Thou art ever ready to so salute, my Prince,” murmured 
Geoffrey in his ear. 

The Abbot’s face expressed both anger and bewilder- 
ment. “Highness,” he began, but his utterance was 
stayed by a commotion at the hall’s entrance. 

Henry Bigot had not far to go in search of the Lady de 
Cokefeld; indeed, she was on her way to the hall when she 
met the Prince’s messenger. Ignorant of the contested 
wardship, and unconscious that the Abbot but kept her in 
retirement to hide her from the two greatest libertines of a 
gross age , after some days of semi-captivity, she felt a great 
curiosity to see for herself what the royal visitors were like. 
So, knowing Samson would refuse her permission to pay 
court to Queen Elinor, she had privately dispatched a 
messenger to her Majesty that very evening, craving per- 
mission to attend on her, as was her right, as the daughter 
of so noble a subject as Adam de Cokefeld. Permission 
granted, Rohese now entered the audience chamber escorted 
by Bigot, and attended by Mistress Mary and Mordred, 
bearing her trailing skirts. 

“Holy Saint Francis!” exclaimed one of the monks. 
“By Jesul” cried more than one courtier none too softly, 
and the Prince’s heart gave a leap within him, as he mur- 
mured, “By Christ’s blood! The fairest maid in all 
England.” And indeed, Rohese was fair enough to make 
any pulse throb quickly. As she came toward the dais, 
Geoffrey’s sensual face lit up as he feasted his eyes on 
her loveliness, and stepped forward that she might approach 
him closely as she passed. Already he had thought “Nay 
Jack can have the chink; I’ll enjoy the maid.” 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


85 


Rohese was dressed in damask robes of shades of green 
and blue, curiously wrought with pearls, so that one saw 
therein all the hues of the peacock’s plumage; her veil 
gleamed silver white against the rich fabric, and a fan of 
peacock plumage sparkled in her hand. Her richly tinted 
hair lay along her back in two great plaits, bound here and 
there with ropes of pearls, the braids falling far down her 
train, gleaming there like two red-gold serpents. A murmur 
of admiration went up from the crowded hall, and Rohese, 
fearful of the Abbot’s displeasure, and frightened at her 
own timerity, quickened her pace, and after bending over 
the Prince’s hand, knelt at the Queen’s feet. Elinor, her 
stern face grown kind, lifted the blushing girl, and with a 
few words of greeting and encouragement, seated her on a 
cushion at her feet. And John eagerly leant forward from 
his throne to whisper to her something which made her 
blush the more, though she answered him only by a slight 
shake of the head. 

Thus she sat, the cynosure of all eyes, for all the world 
must stare now, as all the world — that is, that part which 
formed the Prince’s court being well trained in Sadii’s 
maxim — “Should the Prince at noonday say, Tt is night,’ 
declare you behold the moon and stars;” praised the maid 
Prince John had called the fairest in all England. 

And poor Jocelin, chagrined at their gazing, looked 
upon her radiant beauty too, and grinding his teeth, dug 
his nails deep into the flesh in the jealous rage and despair 
of impotent love, while in his ears there rang the minstrel’s 
rhyme: — 


86 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 

“There dwelt a page in castle Clare, 

And ah he loved his Lady so! 

And yet she moved so proud and fair — 
She did not care — she did not know 
She did not care nor know.^’ 


CHAPTER XIV. 


“By the grave, my Lords, which made me 
Orphaned girl and dowered lady, 

I deny you wife and ward.” 

“Surely, Prince,” said Samson, “Roger of Bigot deliv- 
ered not my answer aright.” 

“Yea, my Lord, he told me thou demurred somewhat 
relinquishing so rich a holding. An’ by our Lady, I blame 
thee not, since mine eyes hath looked upon the most precious 
part of the trove. Ah, a monk hath ever an eye for beauty ! ” 

“Demurred somewhat!” thundered the Abbot. “An’ 
this to me! Am I to be juggled with in mine own castle 
as a nurse dandles a puny child who frets and will not take 
its pap? I deny thee this wardship, John of England, and 
will hold this female Advocate, and bestow her hand at 
mine own pleasure.” 

In the tense silence the Prince’s strenuous breathing 
could be heard, as flinging aside his mother’s restraining 
hand, he rose, and with a rage-purpled countenance, 
shook his fist at the Abbot. 

“Deny, deny! God’s blood, thou deny! An Abbot 
whom I created but yesterday. Thou forgettest whose 
subject thou art, proud monk!” 

“The Church is subject to none save the most high God, 
Prince John Sansterre. The ring and the crosier are 
emblems of that power no king can bestow! Beware lest 
thou bring upon thee the interdict of the Church by seeking 


88 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


to snatch from her, her just perquisites.” At this direct 
threat of excommunication, a murmur went round the hall. 

In the middle ages when tyranny and superstition were 
rife, excommunication was the iron sceptre by which the 
church ruled Prince and subject. The excommunicated 
were shunned like lepers by their friends, families and 
servants; and by any communication with persons beneath 
this dread ban, a lesser excommunication or privation of 
the sacraments was incurred, to be lifted only by penitence 
and absolution. 

John felt that he had gone too far. This Samson was 
a formidable enemy, who, besides wielding spiritual power, 
was not without material means of wreaking his vengeance, 
for John’s quick eye had caught the glint of steel from 
beneath the robes of an hundred monks, and saw that the 
corridor outside was filled with men, who, though they 
were dressed as servitors, each bore in his belt a SheflEeld 
blade, and each hand went to hilt at sound of Samson’s 
voice. Vainly had Bigot assayed to stay his master’s 
wrath, as had Geoffrey and the Queen. Now, no restraint 
was needed. John was a coward; one who struck in the 
dark; or at best, only when all power lay behind him, and 
he knew that with Richard alive he was never secure. 
There was one more card to play. If Rohese would accept 
him as guardian, the Advocates might side with her against 
the Abbot, and this result in the consummation of John’s 
plans. The beauty of the maid had fired his incontinent 
blood, and the fief of de Cokefeld was rich; Geoffrey was 
clamoring for recognition of his services; the country 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 89 

already groaned under taxes, and with coffers depleted; 
he must have money. So his tone was conciliatory. 

“How now, my Lord Abbot, forgive my untimely heat! 
Let us not quarrel e'en o’er such a pretty puppet as this. 
But hath the maid no say? Methinks the Advocates who 
so long served under her father’s banner should somewhat 
consider her preference.” The Advocates visibly approved 
of this, as they thought the Abbot’s proceedings too aggres- 
sive and masterful by far. 

“Mary’s heart, he acts as if he were the Pope himself,” 
my Lord of Clare said to Faulkenbridge. 

“Thou art right, my Bucco. Father Hugo was ever 
ruled by our decisions. This one hath not even questioned 
our opinions.” 

“See, sweet,” went on the Prince, mellifluously lifting 
Rohese’s head and pointing to Geoffrey, who struck an 
effective attitude, and regarded the shrinking girl with a 
bold glance, he intended to be enticing and subduing; 
“Wilt not exchange the dreary life in thine old Keep for 
the gayety of court? Become the Prince’s ward, lady, 
and there stands a gallant husband ready for thee; spruce 
and pricked, who will govern thee gently, though he love 
thee hotly. What say’st thou, pretty minion?” 

Obscured by the crowd stood a tall slender nun whose 
white tunic and pectoral, black hooded cloak and ebon 
staff proclaimed her the Prioress Rosamund, and, forgetful 
of prudence, she now pushed forward the better to compre- 
hend that which so nearly concerned her son. Ten years 
younger than Queen Elinor, her Greek features still retained 
their reposeful beauty, and dispite her habit she was a 


90 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


handsome, stately woman. The noise of her movement, 
though slight, was noticed by the Queen, who turning, 
found herself face to face with her hated rival of old. The 
almond-shaped eyes of the Prioress contracted, (they were 
green as the sea on a sunlit day, and flecked with gold like 
the jeweled eyes of a toad); her thin lips tightened into a 
scarlet line, as she proudly and defiantly met the withering 
glance of Elinor. Time and circumstances may teach 
men to forget but women, in whose hearts the fires of jeal- 
ousy are kindled, hate always — through life — yea, after 
death. 

“Remove that wench!” commanded Elinor to the cap- 
tain of her guard, her pointing finger shaking with anger. 
The green eyes flashed, and the thin lips of the Prioress 
opened as if to speak, but Geoffrey, who had been furtively 
watching his mother during the Prince’s proffer, now caught 
her eye. Like Henry of old, he ruled this scheming, 
haughty woman with a glance, and warned by his look 
she held her peace. The Abbot here interposed. 

“Madam,” he said to the Queen, “the lady Prioress is 
m)' guest.” So Elinor, biting her lips at this public 
rebuke, said no more, being forced to sit and watch 
the white cat-like face of her enemy light up with a 
triumphant smile. 

“What say’st thou, Lady de Cokefeld?” urged the 
Prince. 

Rohese was at bay. Abhoring the proffered change of 
guardianship, she more abhored the proffered bridegroom; 
yet how dared she speak before so great a company, and 
reveal to the Prince the thoughts which surged^within her 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


91 


proud young mind ? So she only shook her head, drawing 
away from the familiar touch of the Prince. 

Abbot Samson then said to her ; ‘ ‘Answer thou, Rohese, 
wilt have as a guardian the Prince, and give thy hand and 
fortune to Geoffrey de Clifford?” Rohese shuddered at 
this name and stole a contemptuous glance at the bastard; 
this was the son of ill-famed Rosamund de Clifford; this 
libertine, execrated by the parents of England. (For 
like a serpent, his slimy trail had gone over many a 
fair home, leaving shame and misery in its wake.) My 
Lady of Clare had told her much of this man. To her 
surprise, a hand now came stealing upon hers, and look- 
ing up she saw the Queen with an intent frown watching 
her face eagerly and warningly,’^ whilst the royal hand 
pressed hers encouragingly. Thus supported, Rohese, 
rising bright-eyed and composed, turned to the Abbot: 

“Nay, nay, my dear, new-found father, though his 
Highness load me with jewels, and set me among the noblest 
and fairest of his court, I’d not exchange my Liege and my 
guardian. And by my Christendom! I am well content 
to bide a maid, an’ God w’ot a de Cokefeld would ne’er 
mate with Rosamund Clifford’s son.” The Abbot smiled a 
stern approval. John looked blankly astonished. The 
Queen patted her hand kindly, and murmured, “Well 
fought, little de Cokefeld.” But Rohese, sinking back on 
her cushion, frightened at her own vehemence, felt but one 
eye upon her. The Prioress glared from her corner like 
a tigress ready to leap upon its prey, and Rohese felt that 
this must be the mother of Geoffrey, and realized that she 
had made an implacable enemy, 


92 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


“Thou hast had thy answer,” said Samson grimly. 
“Come, Lady de Cokefeld, it grows late; maids should 
not bide from bed so late.” 

“A merry revel to you all, my guests. Your Highness, 
there are here some right skilful gleemen who will more 
than compensate for our heavy company. Ho there, 
master of the hall, bring forth the choicest wines, and let 
the music play!” And as a gay madrigal struck up, the 
Abbot, with a haughty obeisance to his royal guests, led 
Rohese from the hall, followed by her attendants, and the 
long line of monks, with eyes bent low, and meekly folded 
hands. The Queen and her ladies presently retired, and 
the Advocates and the rest of the court were left to nightly 
revelry; though John, Geoffrey and Bigot sat moodily 
apart, while the music rang, and the cup went round. 

As they went toward the stairway leading to the Gate 
chamber, Rohese said penitently, “I pray thee, my Lord, 
forgive my coming hither against thy commands. I was 
but curious to see a great court assembled.” 

“Well, thou’st had thy wish, girl. Woman ne’er obeyed 
God or man gainst her desire since first she disobeyed in 
Eden. But thou’lt pay dearly for this night’s work, I 
fear. Once the wolf smells blood he’ll not leave the trail. 
And Geoffrey de Clifford has been flouted by the fairest 
maid in England. Well for thee, child, that Samson’s 
strong arm wields the Crosier, instead of Hugo’s. ’Tis 
a lucky chance thou’rt housed with me, as it has turned; 
for the Prince is minded to take thee by force, Rohese, I 
saw it in his eye; and over God’s forbade when he^s done 
with thee, why thou’lt be fit for his Favorite’s wife,” and the 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


93 


Abbot ground his teeth as he turned away, leaving Rohese 
with scarcely strength to climb the stair, assisted by wide- 
eyed Mistress Mary, half ready to weep, seeing her lady so 
disturbed. Slowly they passed up the great marble stair; 
the attendant at its foot extinguished his taper and went 
away, and ’twas then a dark figure stole from behind a 
pillar nearby, and murmuring, “O my sweet, my brave, 
lady,” kissed the stones her feet had trod ere he departed 
into the gloom like one of the shadows of the night. 


CHAPTER XV. 


“Hast thou, as yet, conferred with the cunning witch?’’ 

The next morning Rohese sat up in bed with a start; 
though hardly awake, she felt there was some alien influence 
about her. Looking through the open door of her apart- 
ment across the Gate chamber, at Mistress Mary’s door, 
she saw that, contrary to custom, it was closed. Had her 
tirewoman wakened, and gone to the buttery for their 
breakfast? No, ’twas too early, as the grey light showed. 
Rohese turned restlessly on her pillow, and then cowered 
’neath her bed coverings, for on a low stool in the center of 
the little room she glimpsed a figure so weird that she 
hastened to shut out its sight. At this, a rattling, “Ho, ho,” 
proceeded from the intruder, and Rohese, reassured by 
this sound that her visitor was human, summoned courage 
to peep from beneath the coverlid. 

“How, now, my little milk-liver! ’Tis many a year 
since I visited thee. Alackaday, to find thee grown such a 
fine coward. Fie upon thee, De Cokefeld’s heir! Art 
frightened at Bernice of Ely ? Hast forgotten ‘ Old nurse ? ’ ” 

“Oh!” Rohese came fully into view now, and sat up, 
curiously regarding her visitor, none other than that ancient 
beldame who had so frightened Brother Tristian. 

“Welcome, dame,” she cried; “now I do know thee, but. 
Mother, how quaintly thou art dressed. Set my fear to 
that, and the fact that ’tis ten years since I last saw thee.” 

“Lawk, I’m not strangely decked. I but wear the red 


95 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 

and black livery of my master. Hast not heard of the 
witch of Ely?” Rohese looked at her with startled eyes, 
crossing herself mechanically, and murmuring her old 
childish prayers — “From all sorcerers, witches and dark 
and evil things, good saints, deliver us,” before she began 
falteringly: 

“I wot not, dame Bernice — ” 

“Of course! Ten years agone, when thy father was 
alive, I had no more mind to be burned at the stake, or 
wear the bridle, than now; and when my yearly visitations 
were made to my nurseling’s child, I donned the russet 
gown and kerchief of a village wife. Thy father was a 
stark man, girl, and mad ’gainst sorcery.” 

Rohese gazed on the crone wonderingly. “And didst 
really nurse my granddam, dame?” 

“Aye, that I did, from two years old; and by paddocks 
maw, I saw the Lady Francis, thy dame, born, married 
and buried, and lifted thee in these arms, a red and squirm- 
ing brat, when first thou earnest to this weary world. Won- 
der not then, that I came hither to seek thee, e’en in mine 
enemy’s stronghold. The Church doth ever love a witch — 
a-sizzling.” And Dame Bernice chuckled at her grim jest. 

“And now what I have come so far to tell must soon be 
told ere thy minion scratch at the door I’ve locked so fast 
upon her. I was stayed last night on my way hither, for 
the Abbot’s silver cross hung on the secret panel by which 
I strove to gain entrance into Bradfield; so I could not pass 
but needs must spend the night as best I might in the 
passage till, at cock crow, I ’scaped by another way and 
came hither in search of thee, too late to stay thy attendance 


96 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


on the court.” When she had shown that she knew all 
that had occurred in the audience chamber, she continued: 

“Well, well, when the bowl is broke one may not readily 
pick up the spilled meal. Woman’s curiosity will ever prove 
her undoing, as it did long ago for the seven wives of the 
blue bearded one. Past is past. But hark ye now, puppet, 
an’ heed my warning. Two nights agone I drew the magic- 
circle; called Uriel, Gabriel, Raphael and Michael to guard 
its quarters, (for I’d writ thy name therein, an’ wished thee 
well), that no evil influence should fall upon thee; but 
spite o’ my charms, Uriel’s blue flame paled, and the black 
shadow crept o’er the border. Outside my hut a bandog 
howled, and Paddock, my chitty toad, crept closer ’neath 
my gown. Then, by the pentagon, an’ by the magic words, 
I summoned Asmodus, my familiar; and that sweet fiend 
and I did converse heavily on thee till cock crow. Heed, 
heed, Rohese, heed — 

“Beware ye of a black, black robe. 

Beware ye of a curled pate. 

By all the powers of dark Hecate, 

Return ye home ere ’tis too late.” 

Twice hath my black grimalkin mewed. 

Twice wilt thou be assailed. 

Death and shame shall hover o’er. 

With tears thy cheek be paled. 

Heed ye — now the witch’s word, 

Heed thee now this warning — 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


97 


’Ware of the robe and tonsured head, 

Beware this very morning.” 

Half chanting this doggerel the witch of Ely passed 
from the room, and vanished ; as quickly and silently 
as a drop of dew in the sunshine. Rohese sprang from 
her bed, and rushed to Mary’s door. The girl was soon 
’roused and the two sat side by side on the little tirewoman’s 
couch, wrapped in its covers, and talking excitedly of the 
queer incident, their teeth chattering with the autumn 
chill. Mary was first to recover herself, and exercising 
loving tyranny, sent Rohese back to bed while she dressed, 
and after bustling about kindling a fire in the brazier, 
assisted her lady to robe. 

As Rohese breakfasted, a message came from the Abbot — 
“Stay thou fast within the Gate chamber, keeping it close 
locked.” Rohese pouted, for she wished much to speak 
with the Abbot regarding the warning of dame Bernice. 
But, mindful of her late disobedience, and its consequences, 
through the day she and Mary busied themselves over 
their ’broidery frames, or the maid listened while the lady 
read aloud from the “Lives of the Saints,” bound in quaint 
wooden covers ’bossed with silver. Toward evening they 
had the excitement of watching the royal visitors depart, 
and, hidden behind the curtain, saw the Queen’s horse- 
litter move off, followed by the Prince and his two friends 
on horseback, who nodded but a surly farewell to the Abbot, 
hospitably standing in the doorway to see his guests depart. 
The Advocates and their attendants withdrew; the gates 
were shut and locked, the troop of soldiers, hitherto dis. 


98 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


guised as servitors, departed to their quarters. Just before 
vespers, Rohese sent Mistress Mary with a message to 
Abbot Samson, desiring an audience, and when she had 
returned with his permission, Rohese arrayed herself for 
the interview, murmuring half to herself, as Mary combed 
her amber locks and bound them with fillets of gold: “At 
least one part of the witch’s warning cannot come true; and 
she herself said ‘past is past.’ No need to ’ware a black 
robe now.” But the witch erred not; had Rohese gone in 
the morning to the Abbot’s parlor she would not have had 
the meeting which proved the undoing of both herself and 
Jocelin. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


“This love will undo us all. 

O Cupid, Cupid!” 

Vespers over and the tapers lit, Rohese descended to 
the Abbot’s parlor; where she sat waiting his return from 
the chapel. She was a little pale, for the past excitement 
told upon her. Besides, the witch’s “’Ware the black 
robe” kept sounding in her ears. So her state of mind 
was very disturbing, and her most disquieting thoughts 
were of Jocelin. She was beginning to believe that the 
handsome monk felt more warmly toward her than was 
compatible with his vows; and while her girlish vanity was 
pleased, she was annoyed; for though she was interested 
in Jocelin, (a far different feeling from the tender regard in 
which she held Henry of Leicester), she was repelled at the 
thought that a monk loved her. 

How does a woman know a man loves her? The day 
of realistic novels has forever banished from romances 
the fallacy that she, palpitating with surprised modesty 
knows it for the first time when told. Nay, should the good 
old fashion of wooing change, and man, never uttering the 
dulcet speech of courtship, simply say, “Marry me,” the 
eternal feminine would continue blushing consciously when 
the mate-to-be came near, and would go to the altar without 
one love-word, needing no passionate phrases to tell what 
she had long since found out by instinct. 

As Rohese sat leaning her head against the purple of the 


100 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


Abbot’s chair, the object of her cogitation passed the door- 
way, looking neither to right or left. He looked so wan and 
despairing that all her woman’s heart went out to him, and 
she murmured his name almost unconsciously. Surely he 
could not have heard it! Rohese shrank back into the 
chair, chiding herself for giving away to impulse, but if 
the eyes of Love are blind, his ear is never closed to the 
Beloved’s voice; and Jocelin, already past the door, stopped, 
paused irresolutely, and turning, walked straight into the 
room and up to her. “I felt something draw me hither,” 
he said simply. 

“Nay, sir monk, thy fasting hath sent vapors into thy 
head,” Rohese said lightly, trying to gain time, and en- 
trenching herself behind coquetry, as foolish little fish 
hide among the reeds of a pond; their gold and silver but 
showing the brighter ’gainst the dark background. Jocelin 
was in no mood for trifling. 

“Lady Rohese,” he demanded, “hast thought of me 
since coming hither?” 

“There are many monks here, brother, and as one 
black gown is like another, is it not likely that sight of 
them would bring thee to mind?” “Yea,” (petulantly) 
“in my dreams I have seen whole processions of thee, by 
our Lady! clambering up a rocky way; with wan faces and 
eyes that burn into my very soul.” 

“And so thou dost think of me? Ah, methinks thy 
dream.ing is but an echo of the wild sweet fantasies which 
beset my sleep. Listen, Rohese, I too, in dreams, have 
seen myself tread with blood-stained feet, a pathway 
strewn thick with briars and stones; but far, far up on 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


lOI 


the heights, a tress of gold hair gleamed, and an angel face 
smiled down on me. ’Twas thou, Rohese, ’twas thou who 
stood there, with alabaster hands outstretched to welcome 
me. Thy voice’s sweetest music breathed my all unworthy 
name; and straight I gained to where thou stood’st, and 
weary, bleeding laid me at thy feet. Then thou didst 
bend compassionately over me; and thy gleaming tresses 
shut us from the world; Ah, blood of saints, beloved I 
Then sounded a strain of music faintly, clear as trills the 
thrush in the dewy hush of the morning. It died away, 
slowly, slowly whilst all the while thy golden hair wrapped 
us round; and I awoke, with echoings lingering in my 
heart. Ah, what an ecstasy it brought! An ecstasy that 
was such exquisite pain that I knelt on my pallaisse in the 
dark and cold to pray that melody would never again 
ravish me. Is’t not true love which brings such dreams?” 

Jocelin breathed fast as one who had run far, and Rohese 
trembled at the passion throbbing in his words. Some- 
thing stirred within her, new and strange, which she had 
never known before. What warm rush and tingle of 
delight was this which swept over her, at sound of this 
man’s compelling voice ? What sweet, soft languor stealing 
through every vein, as he clasped her hand and bent his 
appealing face so near that the breath from his beautiful 
parted lips trembled on her cheek like a caress? What 
witchery lay there in that all-conquering glance, which 
seemed drawing her very soul through her eyes to mingle 
with his? 

“Rohese, Rohese,” he cried, “lovest thou me?” But 
the maid still had will enough to try to draw away froni 


102 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


him; averting her flushed face, with a frightened “No, no, 
no!” But Jocelin did not loose his hold on her struggling 
hands, but turned them upward and kissed each soft pink 
palm, once, twice, with long soft kisses warm as sunshine. 
They thrilled her through and through, like a draught of 
some rare elixir. 

“Thine eyes are filled with tears, Rohese, yet thou 
say’st ‘No, no.’ What lieth within thine eyes behind 
those tears? Thou darest not look me in the face! Say 
no again, sweet scarlet lips, for those glorious eyes declare 
thee darling traitors!” he murmured rapturously, trium- 
phantly. His warm breath stirred the ringlets on her 
brow; his hot lips lay upon its cool whiteness like a flame. 

“Thy lips, thy lips, sweet witch!” he cried hoarsely, 
“’Twere crime to force their virgin rose; yet by the twelve 
Evangels, they tempt me sorely! Thy lips, thou regent of 
my soul!” As a serpent holds a fluttering bird within its 
potent gaze, he held the frightened maid. His bright eyes 
wooing, wooing, seemed impelling her to yield. Just then 
a bell rang, clearly, softly, far within the palace; it seemed 
to break the spell. Rohese arose, pushing him from her 
with all her strength, 

“Nay, nay,” she cried with a look of terror, “a monk 
a monk; bethink thee, Jocelin, what hath a monk to do 
with love?” Jocelin paled, though he did not answer her, 
but stretched his arms to her pleadingly, tenderly, and 
advanced as if to fold her in their embrace. While she 
paused undecided, half inclined to fly, yet, glancing at him 
with veiled eyes which shone like stars, the corridor outside 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


103 


resounded with a firm and heavy tread, and the deep tones 
of Abbot Samson sounded through the parlor: 

“Let Jocelin await me in my bed chamber, Brother 
Walter, I’ll to my ward within here, and then to rest. The 
hour grows late, and there is much to be written, so 
apprise him straightway. Good night. Our Lady’s benison 
on thee.” 

Jocelin and Rohese started guiltily apart, and she pointed 
to a side door where he slowly withdrew with long, ardent, 
backward glances, and Rohese, her hands pressed upon 
her breast, went to the window and stood looking into the 
night with eyes which saw not, and bosom which rose and 
fell tumultuously. Yet when she had turned to salute 
the Abbot, and he commented on her flushed cheeks, she 
answered composedly, “Thy parlor is o’erwarm. Father, 
and in sooth, my head aches drearily. But thou hast 
other matters as I heard thee tell Brother Walter; I’ll set 
my little mouthings by till morning. It was but of a visit 
from dame Bernice I came to speak.” 

“Thou art thoughtful like thy mother, girl, and I’ll 
accept thy gentle little sacrifice, and hear thee on the 
morrow;” and with a blessing and a kiss upon her forehead, 
Samson dismissed her, and Rohese, guiltily thinking that 
he must feel that other kiss which so late had rested on her 
brow, fairly flew upward to the Gate-chamber, where 
Mistress Mary sat demurely by a taper, sewing a long 
white seam, as though she too had not just raced thither 
from the corridor outside the parlor, where she had, with 
palpitating delight, spied upon the monk’s love making. 
But Rohe3e in her own confusion, noticed nothing, and 


104 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


anxious to be alone, bade the girl haste to bring her night- 
rail and make her ready for bed. For a wonder, Mary made 
no comment on this early retiring, though she smiled know- 
ingly to herself. 

Rohese abed, the tirewoman withdrew and quiet and 
darkness reigned, save for the faint glow cast athwart the 
Gate-chamber by the coals glowing in their brazier. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


•“Curl and cheek of thine stand there, 

Bare the secret of thine ambergris locks is laid, 

Abrogate are cross, and monkish gear. 

Gabriel hath revealed the scriptures on the tablet of thy 
form.” 

Entering the Abbot’s chamber, Jocelin found that he 
had exchanged his richly jewelled dress for a white serge 
robe such as novices wear, and reclined on his couch, with 
eyes filled with unutterable weariness, fixed upon space, 
as if trying to pierce the future. Beset by many other 
cares, this attempt of the Prince to seize the dower and 
person of Rohese, disquieted him much. 

Though he had come into the high estate of Abbot 
inexperienced in governing, and little learned in the custom 
of courts had been set to preside over one, he had that within 
him, which, antagonistic to disorder and disobedience, over- 
ruled both. His early military training, and studious an- 
choretic life had strengthened and toughened every mental 
fibre, and he was one who by obeying had learned to 
to rule; who by self-restraint had learned to govern others. 
While within his stern, true heart he had a “Courage to 
quell the proudest; an honest pity to encourage the hum- 
blest.” Within the Abbey, there had been debts ^and 
disorder to fight; without, rebellious'^subjects and|^wily 
Advocates who must be ruled with an iron, but velvet- 
gloved hand. The incoming of the one hundred and 


io6 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


fifty monks from Normandy infusing new life into the 
Abbey had greatly helped in its upbuilding, and in less 
than two years, every bond had been paid. Bailiffs, sock- 
men and townfolk raised their allotted portion of the 
Abbey’s revenues; the repsilver came pouring in again in 
a small, but steady stream; and woebetide the false, remiss 
or unjust subject, for the new Abbot, though generally 
slow to anger, was terrible in rage, and many a discomfited 
vassal murmured, “He rages like a wolf;” until Samson, 
with grim humor, adopted the saying and adding the motto 
^^Soevit tit lupus^^ to his arms, had it inscribed in letters 
of gold upon his standards. 

The Abbot had gained another concession from the sulky 
Prince; and when Jocelin began writing, at his dictation, 
his first task was a letter to Ranulf de Glanville, Justicary 
in Chief; enclosing a mandate signed by John’s unwilling 
hand, banishing the Jews from St. Edmundsbury, and 
pronouncing sentence of excommunication on all who 
should harbor them. The next letter was to my Lord of 
Clare, denying an unjust claim of fees for bearing the 
banner of St. Edmund in war; which Bigot had set forth 
while attending on the Abbot. 

“Write, son Jocelin, ‘Earl Roger, Bigot, asserts him- 
self duly seized, and by such seizing holds this office from 
the time we fought the Flemmings (’Ehue, ’tis a weary 
while since then); also Thomas de Midham sayeth the 
right is his, so my Lord, when thou hast made out one with 
the other that the right is truly thine, come then and claim 
the fee, which shall be paid thee from the time of King 
Edmund’s charter/ ” So on, and on the Abbot dictated, 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


107 

and the secretary wrote, far into the night. Letters to 
Pope’s Legates, and King’s Viscounts, ending with a 
lengthy epistle to the Archbishop of Canterbury, on certain 
weighty matters of Church and State. These duly sealed 
and laid in a sandal-wood cabinet, the Abbot closed his 
eyes and pressed his hand to his brow, as if the print of 
the miter was there, sighing wearily, as at his “Satis,” 
Jocelin arose to set away the writing materials. 

“Thou sighest. Dominie,” said the secretary. 

“Yea, is it a wonder? My son, thou and thy brethren 
share our plenty and prosperity; but little thinking of the 
giant task it was to bring things so; or the cares concerning 
the management of our house and family, and all the other 
business which harrows my troubled mind. Those three 
sleek leopards just gone are plotting usurpation, if I mistake 
not; and I travail sore for the safety of my ward, whose 
fair person hath awakened in them the lust of the body, 
whilst her dower hath kindled that more dangerous lust, 
the lust of gold. If it were so I could be present at court, 
I could hold them somewhat in check, but God wot what 
they’ll now be hatching once my back is turned. Alas, 
my child, man never knows when he is blest, or realizes 
his happiness ere it is flown. Were I a monk again, with 
but five marcs in my pouch, I’d to the schools, or as keeper 
of the books, live at peace far happier than I am as Abbot 
and Lord.” 

“Who can believe such things, my Lord!” exclaimed 
Jocelin, but the Abbot smiled sadly, turning on his 
pillow, like one weary of the world, and as Jocelin extin- 
guished the tapers and withdrew, he blessed him and gently 
bade him, “Goodnight,” 


io8 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


‘‘A good night!” Jocelin repeated to himself, as he 
went out into the dark. “Ah, Mary mother, will there 
ever be good nights for me again? By my troth, I hope 
there is naught writ amis in those letters; for I had but 
one word singing in mine ears the while I wrote — ‘ Rohese, 
Rohese,’ and the feel of a soft warm hand resting in mine 
own; until I cracked my Lord’s gold pen-staff by my tight 
holding. God’s love! ’Twas Paradise! A man might 
easily risk all earth and heaven to rest his lips upon the 
dewy scarlet of her mouth! Christe Eleison! ’Tis a 
bitter thing to be such as I; shackled to the stake of mine 
accursed vows, and burned by Love’s flames. Danger 
threatens my heart’s anointed love, and I preforce, a coward, 
shaveling monk, must stand aside ignorant, unskilled and 
weak of arm, unable to lift even one sword, one single 
sword in her defense. It is not right! Am I not a man, 
with all a man’s hopes, desires and capabilities? God is 
unjust, that men should live maimed, incapacitated things! 
Ah, Mary intercede for me! I blaspheme! Impious 
monk! Wouldst thou, like Job, curse God and die? Yet 
God made not monks — ’twas some devil’s work. Christ 
and the Evangels walked free into the world, and Peter, 
when ’twas needed, drew a sword. I will not thus be 
buried like some mummied Pharo in his tomb. On the 
morrow I’ll to the Abbot, and sue for release from this 
monkly servitude. Then I’ll get me to my uncle in Nor- 
mandy; (my father used to call it when he sighed — ‘Sweet, 
sweet Normandy.’) There I’ll prove myself a man, and 
with my sword and monkly lore, carve a fortune out of 
Fate, and then — and then I’ll return for my Rohese!” 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


109 

Wandering through the maze of corridors leading from 
the Abbot’s room, Jocelin all unwittingly turned into the 
narrow hallway which led to the Gate-chamber. Pondering 
on his fortunes, building castles in the air, all tenanted 
solely by Rohese and himself, Jocelin opened the door 
which Mary had forgotten to bar, and was astonished to 
find himself within the Gate-chamber. His first impulse 
was to leave at once, but an irresistible charm hovered 
around the place where Rohese spent her waking hours. 
It held him to the spot. The tapestry, stirred by some 
furtive draught, rustled softly on the moonlit wall, until it 
seemed imbued with life, and the white-clad figure of Helen 
of Troy ’broidered on the fabric, seemed leaning toward 
the Paris at her feet, as if she would embrace him. “I 
must be gone,” the monk murmured, yet stayed. Ah, 
^‘Sometimes we are devils to ourselves, when we tempt 
the frailty of our powers, presuming on their changeful 
potency.” 

A subtile perfume hung about Rohese’s carved oak 
chair. Jocelin knelt by its side, and buried his face in its 
cushions. “Rohese, Rohese,” the very murmur of the 
dear name as it fell from his lips, filled him with an exqui- 
site pleasure that was half pain. As he knelt there, he 
thought of her lying on her bed; all her glittering hair 
spread out — “Ah, sweet, like a golden net to catch men’s 
souls in, whilst thou slumberest. Dear tyrant, have mercy; 
for thou hast my soul already fast. Oh blossom of my 
heart!” the monk cried brokenly, tears of love and longing 
stealing down his cheek, as he arose to tear himself from 
such a sweetly dangerous place. 


lio 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


Then he paused — “What if I only looked into heir 
chamber to see if all is well? What harm can rise from 
just one look? Surely sin is in intention!’’ Jocelin gave 
conscience or reason no time to argue the point — softly, 
he crossed to the low doorway leading to Rohese’s room, — 
and entered. A faint light from the brazier flooded the 
little chamber. A toilet table stood in the center of the 
room, the firelight glinting on the brass and silver furnish- 
ings. By its side a stool held, in a silken heap, Rohese’s 
clothing. Jocelin touched it. It seemed as if the dainty 
garments were still warm from the contact with her sweet 
body. Quicker he moved now, more softly, his slender 
black-robed figure flitting through the shadowy room like 
some dark phantom of the night. It hovered for a moment 
round the curtained couch, and then it paused, and with 
trembling hand Jocelin drew the curtain. Rohese lay with 
her face turned toward him, her head half tilted backward, 
and her lips parted softly, and the red firelight played 
caressingly over her white neck and bosom; her glistening 
hair streaming all about her on the rich satin pillows, just 
as he had fancied it a moment since. One rounded limb 
was half disclosed, and lay white as marble against its 
rich dark background; the taper foot tinted to rose beneath; 
the oval nails like burnished ivory. Jocelin’s heart stood 
still, and then gave a great bound, as if it would leap from 
his bosom. The hot blood rushed to his head; his breath 
came fast as he stood gazing; forgetful of everything save 
that one throbbing, panting, wild desire to have and hold 
that warm, white beauty; to crush it close to him; to drink 
in its sweetness, and never let it go! With a low, inarticu- 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


Ill 


late cry he leaned forward and clasped Rohese in his arms, 
fastening his burning lips upon hers, and feasting on their 
dewy sweetness. 

In the dark opening of the Gate-chamber a figure paused 
a moment, and the leering face and ferret eyes of Brother 
Walter peered in as some dire fiend would gaze upon a 
scene in Paradise. Then it disappeared quickly as it had 
come, like a dream flitting through a sleeper’s brain. 
Jocelin, passion mad, bent his head to take further toll of 
his sweet prisoner’s lips, as she awoke with a cry of terror 
which brought him to his senses. Then with one wild look 
of despair, and a faltered plea for pardon, Jocelin released 
her and fled from the room; on, on through corridor, down 
the stairway and outside Bradfield; through colonnades, up 
terraces, in the cold moonlight through dark vaulted halls 
until he reached his cell, where he fell upon his pallaisse, 
face downward, moaning in an agony of shame, and clutch- 
ing at the straw. 

The nocturnal bell sounded, but he did not heed its 
call. Later he rose, and slipped his robe from him, and 
the morning sunshine touched with pitying fingers of 
light his livid face, contorted in an agony of prayer, and his 
blood-streaked back and sides, as he knelt before his cruci- 
fix, crying Peccavimil Peccavimif^’ wielding with unfalter- 
ing hand the blood-stained scourge. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 


“By our greatness! 

Bitter torture shall winnow truth from falsehood.’^ 

Alas for Jocelin! When that morrow dawned on which 
he had proposed to make such a valiant stroke for liberty, 
it found him exhausted by his vigil, and the cruel flagella- 
tion to which he had subjected himself, too languid to do 
aught save lie upon his straw, and follow the same round 
his mind had been traversing all the long, long night. 
WTat was his intent? What were his desires? What 
were Rohese’s thoughts of so gross an insult ? How 
would it all end? was what this poor self-accusing creature 
asked himself over and over. As to the latter question, 
he little recked how near was its answering; for Jocelin 
thought, as do all young and untried souls in Sorrow’s 
shadow; when Anguish brings all her furies to scourge 
dying Hope and Joy, that this present woe could have no 
bitterer aftermath. But naught in this world is superlative, 
save death, and even that can hardly be called so, as there 
lies something beyond it. So while this wretched man 
asked himself, “What will be the result?” Brother Walter, 
early closeted with the Abbot, was bringing about a speedy 
ending. 

Walter the Medicus was not wicked, yet his was one of 
those distorted natures in which curiosity, distrust and 
envy lurk like toads beneath a stone, only waiting the hand 
of opportunity to uncover them. Thus it was with the 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


113 


firm consciousness of good faith he told the Abbot all he 
had suspected, and what he had seen in Rohese’s chamber, 
though the fact that Jocelin was handsome, popular, 
skilled in the arts, and favored by the Abbot, may have 
colored the recital. 

Samson heard him in silence; his firm jaw set like a 
trap of steel, but through his piercing eyes searched the 
informer’s face, as if he would penetrate the shriveled 
soul of him, he could detect no deceit therein, and was forced 
to think what it tore his heart-strings to believe. 

‘Tt shall be sifted,” said he at length, “thoroughly, and 
at once. Go bid the Prior assemble all the brethren in 
the Chapter-house, and straightway I’ll come thither. 
Mind ye, I said a//;” he repeated impressively, as Walter 
departed, his voice slightly trembling, for he could not 
hear to mention Jocelin ’s name; for him. Abbot Samson 
loved best of all his household, and often thought, “Had it 
been permitted that I should have a son, he would have been 
like this boy.” 

Left alone, the Abbot paced the parlor tugging at his 
grizzled beard, frowning and muttering as he moved, and 
after a few moments passed into his offeratory, where on 
his knees before the shrine, he prayed for guidance to do 
■firmly and justly that which was to be done; especially 
pleading for power to restrain the anger and indignation 
surging in his heart against this untoward offender. Yet, 
however much the ermined of soul love those of meaner 
mould, they can never quite do them justice; for, living 
above the temptations with which they are beset, they are 
unable to sympathize with weakness. 


114 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


Brother Walter was too wise to tell the Prior why the 
chapter was to be assembled, but that astute Norman 
drew his own conclusions from the eloquent face of the 
other, and shook his head dubiously as the monks filed into 
the chapter room, two hundred strong, and filled the long 
oaken benches on either side. Here they waited, chatter- 
ing like school boys on the probable cause of the summons, 
but when the Abbot entered with Rohese, white and tremu- 
lous, and Mistress Mary (fresh from a stern interrogation) 
in floods of tears, expressive glances were exchanged, as 
if each would say to his fellow, “This smacks of some 
excitement. Brother!” 

Seats were placed for the two maids near the Abbot’s 
chair. The clerk of the chapter called the roll, each monk 
replying, “Ad sum ” until all had answered to their names. 
Nay, not all — where is my Lord Abbot’s own chaplain ? 
And why looks my Lord so grim when Jocelin of Brake- 
lond answers not unto his name? 

“Bring him hither,” said the Abbot. His tone made 
them start; ’twas like the menace of distant thunder and a 
hush fell over the assembly like that which presages a 
storm. Presently the messenger returned, followed by 
the delinquent. The moment he entered, Jocelin knew 
the worst had come; and with the last desperate courage 
of one who fights for his life against many foes, he drew his 
spare form erect and steadying his twitching features, 
came forward with calm, slow tread; not to his accustomed 
seat, but straight to the Abbot’s chair, where, with a re- 
spectful obeisance, he folded his arms and stood, waiting 
for the accusation. Rohese crimsoned at sight of him, and 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


clutched her tirewoman by the hand; for Mary, aroused 
by her cry, had reached her side on yesternight in time to 
see the intruder flee across the Gate-chamber. 

Darker, and darker grew the Abbot’s face, until it seemed 
to the frightened monks that the room was filled with 
gloom, while in the suppressed tones of a man who fears 
to trust himself, he addressed them: “My children, it is 
in shame and anger that I reveal to you that deadly sin 
hath entered these hallowed walls, and a stain fallen on 
the honor of our house. Woe’s me, I — and I have been 
the indirect cause, in that I nursed a viper in my bosom.” 
(Pointing a shaking finger at Jocelin.) 

“Before God and the saints, and this chapter here 
assembled, I, Samson, Abbot and Lord of St. Edmunds- 
bury, by testimony of Walter de Medicus, and Mary, 
tirewoman to Rohese De Cokefeld, do accuse Jocelin of 
Brakelond, monk of the Benedictine Order, affirming that 
he is false to the letter of his vows, hath failed in obedience 
and chastity; hath at night, entered the chamber of our 
ward, Rohese De Cokefeld; that he was driven hence by 
her screams, and the arrival of her tirewoman.” 

The silence was unbroken; save, far back in the hall, an 
aged Norman whispered in his neighbor’s ear, “Body of 
the saints, the penalty is death by living sepulcherture.” 

“What say’st thou, leacherous monk?” thundered the 
Abbot. “Betrayer 'of thy Lord’s trust, renegade, would-be 
ravisher; wilt not thy master, Satan, put answer in thy 
mouth? Speak, I command thee!” 

Jocelin cast a hunted look around, such as a drowning 
man would cast on the vanishing earth and sky. He 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


1 16 

dared not glance at Rohese, but he met the Abbot’s con- 
temptuous look with one of mournful entreaty. 

^‘My Lord,” he answered, “I do confess that I went 
thither, but by the wounds of Christ, I swear I meditated 
no evil. I love the lady, my Lord, and passion over- 
whelmed reason. Indeed, I meant no harm.” 

At this weak defense, a low hiss went up from the chapter. 
The Abbot stilled it with a look. 

“Is it goody wretched wight, to seize upon a helpless 
maid alone, half naked in her bed? Sideath, thou addest 
foolery to thy crime? Doth think to trick us with such a 
pouch mouthed whine? ‘Indeed, I meant no evil!’ We 
all were men, sirrah, before we e’er were monks: God 
wot! And prone to sin as sparks fly up. O spawn of 
evil, seek not thus to trick us with a puny tale no school 
brat would believe! Come, midnight prowler, hast thou 
no other safe defense than this?” 

“I can say no more,” answered the despairing monk, 
flinging up his arms wildly to Heaven, as if for justice 
there. 

“Then, another can and shall. Walter de Medicus, 
stand forth!” So Walter stood forth and told his story, 
ending, by way of justification, “Indeed, methought them 
in the very lists of love, else would I ne’er have told the 
dread tale!” But he went no further, for Samson, with 
eyes aflame, struck him full in the mouth with clenched 
fist. “Remove him, shackled, to the tower;” and those 
nearest him right gladly obeyed. 

“Foul bird which fouls its own fair nest,” the Abbot 
thundered; “who dares insult a pure and virtuous maid — 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


117 

deep wronged and shamed by this audacious break? Let 
me but sense such a thought in any man’s mind, and by the 
saints, I’ll flay him for to pluck it out. Thus doth sin 
breed sin, my sons. We’ll fast till Ember day, and each do 
double penance to purge us from such vile contamination.” 

“Brethren of St. Edmund’s holy shrine, I command ye 
each to rise as his name is called, and with prayerful con- 
sideration, answer ye. Is this Jocelin innocent or guilty?” 

There was a pause, then the notes of a chant rose to the 
dim rafters of the chapter house, gaining strength and 
power, as each monk taking up the song, rose in place and 
stood ready to give verdict — “Qwi tollis peccate tnundi 
miserere nohisi” And as the last solemn note died away, 
the long roll was called and one hundred and ninety-nine 
voices answered, one after the other, “Guilty, my Lord!” 

There was the sound of a fall, a cry from Mistress Mary, 
and the Abbot turned to see his ward in a limp heap on the 
floor; the maid exclaiming, ^She is dead, my sweet lady, 
she is dead!” ’Twas but a swoon, and when she had been 
borne to the cooler air of the antechamber, and ministered 
to, she lay, moaning, with her head on Mary’s lap. An 
exclamation from the girl, who was eagerly listening to what 
went on in the chapter room, caused her to sit up, crying 
wildly, “What ’tis? Let me go, minion!” 

“Ah, Holy Mother,” cried the distracted maid, “’tis 
torture by the Rachentege till he confess his sinful intent; 
then punishment at the Abbot’s pleasure. The cruel, 
cruel Lord — truly ‘he rageth like a wolf.’” 

“What, girl; what matter of thing is the Rachentege?” 

“Wait, Madam, and I’ll tell thee. List now. Brother 


ii8 A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 

Tristian speaks;” and truly it was the tremulous voice of 
the old gardener who alone, of all the brethren, dared to 
speak a word for the renegade monk. 

“Nay, I care not for him, wench! This Rachentege — 
it hath a fearful sound; describe it, I command thee!” 

“Why, ’tis an engine which it taketh three to carry, (I’ve 
been told). ’Tis fastened to a beam, and hath a sharp 
iron which goeth round a man’s throttle, so he can in no 
ways sit, lie or sleep but he beareth the weight of the iron.” 

Rohese drew a sobbing breath. “Mary,” she demanded 
fiercely, “do’st believe that Jocelin came to the Gate cham- 
ber with evil intent?” 

“Who can say. Madam?” answered the tirewoman. 
“But, as our Lord Abbot says, ‘man is prone to sin!’” 

But Rohese was not listening to this evasive answer. 
She was now intent on Brother Tristian, muttering as she 
strained her ears to catch every sound of his voice, “Jocelin 
loves me, and he, meant no evil. For my sake he will be 
tortured — for my sake, mayhap suffer death!” 

Within the chapter room Tristian was entering a broken 
plea for mercy on account of the offender’s youth, and his 
erstwhile devotion to the Abbot’s service. “Bethink 
thee. Dominie, on thy return from thy mission to Rome, 
when thou wert gyved within the prison tower, the youth 
denied himself food, and risking punishment and broken 
bones, climbed the Abbey wall to succor /te/” They all 
expected the Abbot to break forth in invectives against this 
poor petitioner; but he answered kindly: — 

“Rest thee, old frere. Thou dost well to remind us of 
such past benefits; a good deed, however small, deserves 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


119 

rewarding. The decrees of the Abbot of St. Edmunds 
should not be variable; yet, because of this past kindness 
and because thou, in brotherly love, hath dared to succour 
the outcast, I will mix mercy with my just decree. Jocelin 
of Brakelond, fallen monk, brother of our household no 
more, when thou, by corrective torture, hath come to con- 
fess thy sin, I, Abbas Dominus, do waive the penalty of 
living sepulcherture which thy offense doth merit, and do 
sentence thee to life imprisonment in the Oubliette. We 
can punish the vile body, but God alone can deal with that 
evil spirit which hath so perverted it. May God have mercy 
on thy lost and ruined soul. Amen. Remove the prisoner.” 

At this sentence, groans rose from the lips of many, 
and as Jocelin was led away old Tristian, rending his 
garments and beating his breast, ran from the chapter 
room with tears raining down his cheeks, crying brokenly, 
“’Twas I who let the Devil loose in St. Edmunds. Culpa 
me, culpa me!” And the wondering monks exclaimed 
“This dreadful happening hath turned his old brain!” 

While the Abbot made his severe indictment, Jocelin 
stood like a statue, alike indifferent to punishment or 
mercy, but when the stern voice ceased and he was being 
led away, he seemed to waken as if from a trance, and 
stretched tremulous hands to the grim judge, crying with a 
look of hunted fear, as he passed from sight, “Mercy, my 
Lord, mercy!” 

’Twas then that a fair disheveled figure sped up the 
aisle, with tangled locks falling about a resolute young 
face; and Rohese knelt at the Abbot’s feet, echoing her 
lover’s wailing cry — “Mercy, my Lord, mercy! Father, I 


120 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


will confess my fault. Torture him not, for Christ’s sweet 
sake, for Jocelin came to me of mine own appointing.” 

Abbot Samson turned ashen, and he loosed Rohese’s 
clinging arms, and stood looking down at her, disdain, 
fiery anger and sorrow struggling for mastery. Then his 
face hardened ; his brow lowered. “ Remove thee, woman ! ” 
he cried; but Rohese, laid her cheek against his silken 
shoe, and the Abbot pushing her from him with his foot, 
unheeding poor Mary’s frantic shrieks of “It is not true, 
Lord Abbot; let me speak!” cried, “Remove the lehman,” 
and strode from the hall. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


‘^Wizards know their time — 

Deep night, dark night — 

The silent of the night; 

The time when screech owls cry, 

And ban-dogs howl.” 

’Twas the close of a dreary windswept day; winter had 
now set in; for two weeks Rohese had been locked fast in the 
Gate-chamber. The Abbot had not seen her, since the 
day of Jocelin’s trial. It seemed as if he waited for time 
to cool his wrath before he decided how he should punish 
her who had proved his favorite’s undoing. So Rohese 
passed her imprisonment as best she might, longing, yet 
dreading for the hour to come when she should be sum- 
moned before the Abbot for his final decision. Mistress 
Mary had been sent back to De Cokefeld, weeping and 
protesting, with the rest of her lady’s attendants. A surly, 
black browed monk brought Rohese her scanty fare, and 
save for his daily coming, she had been utterly alone. At 
first she had wept continually; more for Jocelin than for 
herself, but gradually the full horror of her position dawned 
upon her. In the chapter room on that fateful morning 
seeking to save the wretched monk from torture, she 
had told the kindly lie, in the purity of her heart little think- 
ing of its full import. But with many hours of lonely re- 
flection, she had begun to ponder on the look of horror 
the monks’ faces had worn, and the white rage and an- 
guish depicted on the Abbot’^ countenance. Now she 


122 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


began to perceive that in the eyes of all she stood confessed 
a guilty thing, whose seductions had wooed a poor monk 
to his ruin. The trial was before her waking and sleep- 
ing, until in her torture she prayed for some cord within 
her weary brain to break, that loss of sanity might blot out 
all remembrance of what had transpired. 

As she sat hopelessly in the twilight, her face buried 
in her hands, the key turned in its massive lock, and her 
keeper entered. Usually surly and silent, he cleared his 
throat once or twice, as if to attract her attention, and as 
she glanced up in surprise, it seemed as if he looked at her 
significantly as he set down the wine and loaf which formed 
her daily sustenance. When he had gone, pushing them 
impatiently aside to rest her arms on the table, a look of 
surprise came over her face, and she lifted the loaf. Surely 
it was heavier than was its wont! On breaking it, a key 
and folded bit of parchment fell to the table. Rohese 
carried the parchment to the window, and read with 
straining eyes these words: 

“Wilt now believe the witch’s prophecies, maid? I 
warned thee, but thou heeded not. If thou wouldst save 
the monk from his dark prison, and thyself from the clutches 
of the Prioress Rosamund, for Samson will send thee thither, 
(she hath claws like a cat, God wot), let thyself out after 
the nocturnal bell rings, (this key unlocks all doors). Get 
thee to Bradfield gate; unbar it, (and haste thee, for ere 
cockcrow thou must be away to De Cokefeld) ; once outside, 
follow the Abbey wall through the forest, (if thy heart fail 
thee not), till thou hast gone full half the distance to the 
prison tower. Wait thou there,” 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


123 


This was signed with a curious black mark as if a sooty 
thumb had been pressed upon the page. 

“’Tis from dame Bernice!’’ Rohese joyfully exclaimed. 
“Saved, saved, poor Jocelin from his dreary prison, and 
I, (ah, thank the holy saints), from almost as ill an one,” 
and she shuddered as she thought of the cruel look the 
Prioress had given her. Amid her rejoicing, Rohese did 
not think of the perils and difficulties of her undertaking, 
but straightway supped heartily, and almost gaily pre- 
pared for her dark and dangerous journey. Night had 
fallen, and she was allowed no lights, but she easily sought 
and selected the few jewels and treasures she desired, 
and though there were some hours to wait, she donned a 
dark hooded mantle, and sat with what patience she could 
muster until after the nocturnal bell had rung, and she 
heard the monks, attendant on the Abbot’s household, go 
pattering down the stone passage to the chapel, and then 
back again to their cells. 

When all seemed securely quiet, Rohese unlocked her 
door and slipped cautiously into the long corridor; the door 
of which the witch’s key also opened. It moved easily as 
if on greased hinges, and though a watch was set nightly 
all through Bradfield house, strange to say, the place 
seemed deserted as some ancient ruin. Quickly she passed 
to the great hall door. Here she paused, feeling doubt- 
fully of the key. Surely ’twas far too small for that great 
lock 1 But on trying it she found, (as the witch had written) , 
it opened all doors ; — for the heavy lock turned with a 
gentle click, and Rohese found herself speeding across the 
ic^ courtyard. The gatekeeper snored peacefully before 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


i?4 

the glowing brazier in his little lodge; the heavy bars of 
the gate swung back without a sound, and when she had 
turned and pushed it shut again, Rohese was outside the 
Abbey walls. Along the lonely way she ran, the far-off 
stars blinking coldly on her through the mist; the night 
wind touching her cheek with chill fingers, and the hazel 
coppice through which she passed casting weird shadows 
on her path, seeming to stretch gaunt hands to stay her. 
Rohese felt as if she were shut alone in some great black 
chamber, where gibbering, hideous phantoms crowded 
near. On, on she sped, terror lending swiftness to her 
feet. An owl shrieked from the wood like a tortured 
thing, and the cold sweat rose on her brow. Half way 
to the tower she stopped. Her breath came in gasps, and 
shivering with fright and cold, she leaned against the Abbey 
wall. All was darkness and silence, save for the occasional 
rustle of some branch stirred by the wind. Over her head 
a great hawk flew heavily and slowly, sounding his warning 
cry as he flew, and Rohese, knowing that up there in the 
wide night sky a soul was passing out somewhere into the 
void, crossed herself and murmured a prayer. 

Just then a dark figure seemed to spring up from the 
ground at her side, and the shriek of terror which rose to 
her lips was silenced by a hand clapped roughly over 
her mouth. 

‘‘Milk-liver, wouldst draw the whole monkly pack 
howling at our heels?” and the erie face of the witch of 
Ely peered closely into her own. “Old Gooseberry hath 
stood us well tonight, though, odds-bodkins, why should 
I so torment my aching bones for two young flibberjibbits? 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


125 


Well, hist thee now! I’ve done all I can or will. What 
yet remains to do thy young heart must dare, for by Grimal- 
kin’s eyes, though I’ll sport on murky nights about the 
graves, and pluck the shrieking man-drake in the dark, 
I’d venture not where thou must walk tonight. The way 
itself is dread, and then, mayhap the tortured dead lurk 
there, who gnawed the living flesh from off their bones 
whilst starving in the Oubliette. None save I know it, 
so if thou ’scapest the gulf and ghosts, thou’lt find thee 
safe at last where thy monkly lover languishes.” 

Rohese answered her in a firm voice, “Show me but the 
way, dame, and though I cross over dead men’s bones. I’ll 
follow it, for I fear not.” And all the courage of her race 
was up in arms to quell her womanly fears. 

“Well spoken! Thou hast thy grandsire’s spirit, maid. 
I like thee well, my little wench, and dare say thou’lt find 
a way to draw the monk forth. Look ye now,” and dig- 
ging away the turf from near a boulder, the witch lifted an 
iron ring with her staff, and disclosed a narrow opening 
in the ground. 

“Wind this rope about thy waist; put this flask within 
thy bosom, for it will aid the monk’s escape. Pass down 
these steps; then pause, count thy paces carefully as thou 
leavest them, for if thou takest one half step too much 
there’ll be no maiden heir to De Cokefeld. Count fifteen 
steps, then pause; press thyself close against the right hand 
wall ere thou takest one more, and moving slowly, pass 
through the darkness with great care. Best say thy prayers, 
for if thou movest to the left one-quarter inch thou’lt fall 
into a gulf none e’er hath fathomed. When thou hast at 


126 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


last turned corner thou’rt safe, if no dread phantom rises 
on thy path. Move swiftly onward until a wall obstructs 
thee. Lift up thy arm its full length; run thy hand along 
its ledge, where shouldst find a bar; slide it back, and thou 
canst pass into the cell where thy monk lies in the Oubliette. 
Once thou hast got him out, and left the secret way, close 
and cover it securely, then haste thee straight to De Coke- 
feld; provide thyself with a chosen few, and thence to thy 
sea-girt tower in Norfolk. There set sail for Normandy, 
where thy father’s cousin, Edmund dwelleth in his strong 
fortress at Gaillon. If thou wish not the young monk’s 
company, send him to me at Ely, where for his mother’s 
sake, who one time served me. I’ll aid him. Haste thee 
now. Farewell. Be brave, for all depends on thee. 
Prosper thy quest.” 

And the witch disappeared as suddenly as she had come. 
Left alone, Rohese did not pause, but with wild beating 
heart, entered the opening and descended the damp broken 
steps. On the last she paused, then stepped down, and 
counting her paces carefully, reached the wall. Pressing 
herself close to it, she found herself on an inclined path 
very narrow and slippery ever leading upward through 
the darkness. After some moments, she turned a corner, 
and reassured by the fact that she had passed the dangerous 
gulf, soon found the bar in the wall, and with difficulty 
moving its rusty length backward, a portion of the wall 
slid gratingly aside, and Rohese passed into a cell dimly lit 
by the wan light of the early dawn coming through a grated 
window set high up in the wall. She was in the cell of 
the Oubliette, and going to the center of the room, where 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


127 


a low stone curbing ran round a black well in the floor, she 
leaned over and called, “Joeelin, O Jocelin! Jocelin, ’tis 
Rohese calls thee!^’ Far down beneath her a thin, faint 
voice cried out in surprise and joy one single word — “Ro- 
hese!” and she knew the poor monk still lived in the depths 
of the Oubliette^ 


CHAPTER XX. 


^‘Thou stretchest down thine arms of snow 
To lift him from below.’’ 

Rohese looked about her for an object to which to 
fasten her rope. The cell was entirely bare, save for a 
heap of faggots in one corner. The window was too high 
and far from the pit to admit of using its bars; time was 
fleeting; should her escape and the attempted rescue be 
discovered, her punishment would be sure, and she had 
no doubt Jocelin’s life would pay the forfeit. Rohese 
did not think of him now as a monk, a man, or a lover, but 
as a creature who, for her sake, had been condemned and 
left to perish by slow degrees in the Oubliette. She must 
not waste precious time in accomplishing her purpose, she 
told herself feverishly, as she felt that strength and courage 
which had buoyed her up through her journey faltering. 
So, womanlike, in her darkest hour of doubt, she leaned 
over the Oubliette to encourage the man whose life and 
liberty depended upon her strength and determination. 

“ Jocelin,” she cried, “I have come to save thee.” The 
monk answered her but faintly; worn with torture of mind 
and soul, emaciated by confinement and semi-starvation, 
(for very meagre were the portions let down to him by his 
jailers); his dry tongue could scarcely articulate, and his 
dull brain scarcely conceive the intelligence that there was 
still hope for him; a forlorn hope, ’tis true, but when woman 
wars with unfavorable circumstances, there seems to come 
upon her an added sense, an instinctive perception of the 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


129 


thing needful. Rohese fastened her rope to the witch’s 
wicker-covered flask, and lowering, said, “See, here is 
wine — drink and gain strength and courage, my poor 
friend.” 

Jocelin obeyed; Rohese heard the distant “gug-gug” of 
the rare Chianti as the parched mouth drank and drank, 
as though it would never get its fill. It was but a few 
seconds when Jocelin spoke, in a tone very unlike his 
first hoarse whisper. The wine had stimulated him and 
he was himself again. 

“God’s benison on thee!” he cried. “Take my grateful 
thanks for coming thus, like an angel to solace the last 
hours of so tortured, lost and damned a creature. I know 
not how thou found’st the way, sweet, but I see in this a 
token of forgiveness, or my body would have rotted, and 
my soul beat itself free from its wrecked cage, alone and 
uncheered by such divine mercy and forgiveness. 

“I thank thee, Rohese, I thank thee! Fare thee well! 
Depart now from that dreary cell; the stones are cold unto 
thy tender feet; and thou, if found here, would suffer for 
this deed of charity. Fare thee well, light of my life. I 
can die now in peace. Since thou hast forgiven me much, 
perhaps God can also. I loved thee well, Rohese — to 
my undoing, but if a broken and contrite heart, and bruised, 
weary flesh can gain Supreme forgiveness, surely my poor 
soul may yet attain some lowest spot in Heaven, where, 
after years of waiting, it shall bloom in gladness to see thee 
enter into the golden glory of the saints. Ora pro we, 
Rohese, farewell!” 

The voice faltered, then died away. Rohese’s eyes were 


130 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


filled with tears ; yet she dared not give away to the emo** 
tion which swayed her. 

“Nay, Jocelin, not farewell, for I have with me means 
of thy liberty. Arise — prove thyself a man ; though weak 
and weary, shake off this lethargy. Our Lady hath an- 
swered my prayers; I was shown a secret way hither, and 
now in but one little moment, Jocelin, this rope — stout 
fastened to — to — some nearby thing, an’ by my troth. 
I’ll straightway draw thee forth.” 

“Nay lady, thy strength of body commensurateth not 
with thy heart. Stand back — I would but pull thee 
into this dread place, destroying that which I hold dear 
above sweet Heaven itself.” 

Rohese was at her wit’s end; well she knew, that unaided, 
she could not lift the weight of Jocelin ’s body, and if she 
did not find some way to raise him, and that speedily, from 
the dungeon, his stimulated strength would fail, and she 
would have to leave him to his fate. But how fasten the 
rope? She searched the cell in vain. Then, as she gazed 
with a despairing prayer upward, her young eyes 
pierced the gloom, and she saw suspended from 
the intersected groins over the Oubliette, a great hook, 
(used, no doubt, in former times by those who descended 
into the pit to see if their victims still suffered). But how 
could she reach it? And if the rope were let from thence 
how could the monk, weak and with untrained muscles, 
ever hope to climb it ? Then an exclamation broke 
from her; her woman’s wit had solved the problem. Quickly 
she seized the sturdy fagots, and began tying them, at 
short distances apart, along the rope. When they were 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


^31 

all distributed thus, and she had tested each knot, she ran 
to the window, rope in hand, and after much scram- 
bling up the rough stone wall finally reached the 
ledge. Here, she was many feet nearer the hook, for the 
ceiling was mercifully low, this being the topmost cell 
in the tower. After many fruitless efforts, she finally 
succeeded in casting the noosed end of the rope over the 
hook, and when she had descended to the floor, she pulled 
it tight, and clapped her bruised hands in glee when it drew 
taut and held fast. 

“Now,” she cried, “now Jocelin, take courage,” and 
she let down this strangely improvised ladder. 

“Nay, ffis useless,” said the monk. “Depart, I beg of 
thee, as I have not the strength to come up, if I had the 
will. An outcast renegade, with a price on his head; an 
object of scornful pity, let me die in peace here, since thy 
coming hath so comforted me.” 

Rohese set her teeth hard and clenched her hands. 
What was she to do ? It was already day, as the growing 
brightness outside showed? 

“Jocelin,” she cried, “Jocelin, wilt break my heart and 
desolate my life? Come to me! I am frightened in the 
dark and cold,” and what with excitement and the despair 
in her heart, she began to sob, crying, “Ah, thou lovest 
me not, and care not if I die.” 

Jocelin sprang to his feet, for at that cry all the manhood 
in him rose. She whom he loved called him to her side. 
Pain racked him, and weakness oppressed, but he called to 
her strongly — “Weep not, Rohese, for I come. Steady 
thou the rope;” and Rohese, with tears still flowing. 


132 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


threw all her young strength upon the rope and held to 
it as a drowning mariner clutches a spar. Well for 
Jocelin of Brakelond that no convent- bred maid stood 
there in that supreme hour. Her muscles trained and 
strengthened by her hardy life at De Cokefeld, stood 
Rohese in good stead, and steadily she held the rope while 
Jocelin slowly, painfully, with hoarse labored breath, 
drew himself up fagot after fagot. He was half way up 
when Rohese’s strained ear caught the beat of sandaled 
feet upon the stones far below. She knew they were coming 
to see if all was well with the prisoner. If Jocelin became 
conscious of this impending danger, the shock might cause 
him to loosen his hold. 

“Hurry thee, hurry thee, Jocelin,’^ she urged; and to 
herself she prayed — “Time O God! Give us but time to 
reach the passage.” Dame Bernice had said that none 
knew of the secret passage from the tower, and Rohese felt 
that they would be safe if once behind the turning stone. 

“I come, beloved, I come,” said Jocelin; but Rohese 
could tell by his voice that he grew weaker. The fact 
that he was in the Oubliette kept him from hearing the 
approach. “Time, O time! ” Rohese pleaded with Heaven, 
and, “Haste, thee, Jocelin, oh for Christ’s sake, haste thee.” 

Now they were at the prison door; now they had paused, 
and she could hear the faint sound of their voices; then the 
jingle of keys. Her arms ached; her head reeled. It 
seemed as if she must loosen her hold on the rope and fall 
fainting into the pit. Jocelin had paused for breath. 

“I can come but slowly, Rohese,” he panted. “I grow 
fainter as I climb.” It seemed to Rohese as if she had 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


133 


stood there for hours. “Haste,” she cried mechanically, 
straining her ears to catch every sound. They must have 
the tower door opened by now! Ah, thank God, it seemed 
to hold ; they could not open it, and tried other keys. 

“Up now, Jocelin of Brakelond, for Mary’s sweet sake! 
For the love thou bearest me! Up, man, up!” Jocelin 
clambered on, too spent to answer. He was nearing the 
top. Rohese could hear another key inserted in the rusty 
lock. Two, three more fagots! How far apart they seemed 
to watcher and climber. Now Rohese heard the door 
creak on its rusty hinges; now they were on the stairs. 

“Merciful saints, give us time. Haste, O haste! my 
friend!” Thanks to Fate, O anxious ones! it is the 
slow feet of old Tristian who, with Richard of Hennan, 
climbs the winding stair. Lucky chance which made old 
Tristian pause for breath on the landing, despite Richard’s 
surly “Come.” Two, one fagot more. The footsteps 
sounded in the little entry outside. 

“Give me strength. Ah, Heaven!” cried Rohese, and as 
Jocelin reached wearily for the last fagot, she leaned for- 
ward, and bracing herself well against the curb she lifted 
him bodily out of it, just as the monks paused at the door. 
As the lock turned with a rusty clang, she dragged the 
half-unconscious man across the floor, and pressing hard 
against the turning stone, dropped it behind her, and stood 
in the dark black passage with Jocelin at her feet. Then as 
she drew breath, she heard the cell door open, and the 
loud exclamations of the entering monks. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

“Safe, safe at last!” 

It was some moments ere Jocelin could stand, and by 
this time the monks within the cell, having satisfied them- 
selves that the Oubliette was empty, had departed to bear 
the news to the Abbot; Richard exclaiming, “The Devil 
hath spirited away his own,” and Tristian following him, 
mumbling thankfully, “It is the Holy Saints who have 
rescued him.” Wonderful to relate, the Abbot received 
this startling intelligence with equanimity. “Ye have 
done well to inform me so readily, my sons,” be calmly 
replied ; and they departed wondering, to rehearse the tale 
in the Chapter room. In his heart, Samson was glad of 
Jocelin’s escape, ascribing it to some sympathizer among 
the brethren, who gaining access to the prison keys, had 
spirited the condemned monk away. Despite his anger at 
the sin, the Abbot loved the sinner, and since Rohese’s 
declaration, regarded the monk’s indiscretion more leniently. 
“Truly, I rejoice,” he said to himself as he went forth 
to join the Abbey Advocates, whom he had assembled 
to discuss his plan of confining his wantonly inclined 
ward in the nearby Priory, that she might be under 
the corrective influence of the Prioress Rosamund. 

“Yea, ’twas ever thus,” he muttered angrily, tugging at 
his beard. “Since the days of Eden ‘The woman tempted 
me, and I ate.’ By my silver cross, e’en I was deceived by 
the fair young wanton, until she spoke out brazenly before 
them all, without a falter, when even my rough old cheek 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


135 


burned with the shame of it. ‘’Twas at my bidding he 
came!’ By the Saints! Hereafter no woman shall enter 
this Abbey, be she old and ugly as Sin, or young and fair 
as Purity. I’ll so order it at next chapter.” 

While the Abbot went toward the audience hall, 
and Tristian and Richard spread the wonderful 
news, Jocelin, and Rohese had come safely across 
the narrow path and emerged into the light; pausing a 
moment in silent horror to gaze back on such part of the 
perilous way as the morning light revealed. Then, they 
hurriedly closed the entrance, concealing it as best they 
might, and hastened into the copse, and so — on, into the 
heart of the wood, toward De Cokefeld. 

As Rohese’s jailer did not visit the Gate-chamber till 
evening, they would have almost a day’s start of the monks, 
and by keeping off the highway, at a safe distance in the 
wood, Rohese thought they might reach her castle by day- 
break the next morning. 

They differed much from those gallantly equipped 
travelers who had ridden so gaily to Bradfield that bright 
autumn day, some weeks before. Now they moved fur- 
tively and painfully beneath the bare branches of the sombre 
trees; their clothing torn by the icey twigs of bushes and 
brambles; and poor Jocelin, whose sandals had grown 
rotten in the damp air of the Oubliette, now fulfilled the 
dream, so passionately related in the Abbot’s parlor, for 
he literally followed her over a briar-strewn, rocky way, 
with torn and bleeding feet. On and on they pressed. 
Now a hare would skurry across their path. Once a red 
fox flashed before them like a flame; here and there the 


136 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE, 


glossy green and red of the holly bush, or the silvery gleam 
of the mistletoe from some gnarled oak-bough, brightened 
the dim wood. The day had dawned dull and cold, and 
a chilling wind wailed through the trees, rattling the boughs 
above them, and piercing them through with its icy breath. 
The monk and maid spoke little, for both were sorely tried 
by the rapid pace at which they had come. When they had 
walked for some hours, Jocelin began to lag, and finally 
sank down upon a bank, calling weakly, “Dear Rohese, 
stay a while, for I can go no further.” 

Rohese turned, and scanning him closely for the first 
time, was startled by his white cheeks and dark-circled 
eyes. Her heart misgave her. Could this poor creature 
make the long journey to De Cokefeld? Or must she go 
on alone, leaving his body to lie in the wood, uncoffined, 
unwatched save by the vultures? She turned hurriedly, 
and knelt by her companion's side, supporting his head 
on her lap, covering him as best she might with the folds 
of her gown and cloak; though her heart was too heavy 
for many words of cheer, as even her strong young frame 
was failing under the sustained strain. But she wiped 
away the tears which would rise to her eyes, as she gazed 
into Jocelin ’s pinched face, and tried to say cheerfully: — 

“Rest thee, my friend. Why, I am hardly weary yet. 
Fie man, by my Christendom, ’tis but a pleasant morning 
walk. Thou art a poor suitor to tire so soon of such goodly 
company.” 

“Alas, sweet lady! At my best I were but a poor fellow. 
And now I bid fair never to reach even the highway. Go 
on, my dear deliverer. Why tarry over so useless a hulk 
£^s lies stranded here?” 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


137 


Rohese laid her hand on his lips to silence him, for she 
knew that if she spoke she would burst into tears. Yet, 
within her heart she was disgusted that this man whom she 
had surrounded with a halo of romance, should show him- 
self so weak. Conversant with bravery and chivalry, she 
felt that Jocelin fell far below her standard, and the emot on 
which had stirred her when he wooed so masterfullv now 
flickered, paled and died out in the light of stern leality. 
The dream had departed. The shadow of love reflected 
in her waiting heart had flown, leaving in its stead pity — 
a pity perilously akin to contempt. 

Looking anxiously about for a place of concealment, 
Rohese’s face suddenly lightened. 

“Jocelin, come but a few steps farther.” And when he 
had risen, she half led him down the bank on which they 
had been resting. As they descended, they seemed sud- 
denly to enter a warm room, so great was the change of 
the temperature. They had come into a deep little dell, 
well screened by bushes and carpeted with fallen leaves, 
tiere the chill wind could not reach them, and they felt 
quite safe from notice. Warmed, and comforted by this 
assurance, the two weary fugitives were soon asleep. They 
had not slumbered long when Rohese, being the less weary 
of the two, and thus the lighter sleeper, awoke with a 
start, for above them she heard the undergrowth rustle 
as if someone was passing. So secure did she feel she was 
about to close her eyes again when a cry of terror arose to 
her lips. Over the rim of the dell was thrust a shaggy 
head and rough muzzle, and the blood-shot eyes of a great 
stag-hound glared down upon them; then the dog withdrew 


38 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


and sent a prolonged bay echoing through the woods like 
a clarion call. Rohese clasped her hands and bent her 
head in prayer. Jocelin, awakened by the sound, sprang 
staggering to his feet, and seizing a broken bough, placed 
himself in front of Rohese. She, though confident that 
the monks were upon them, could scarce restrain a smile 
at Jocelin’s appearance. A cadaverous, trembling figure, 
bare of foot, clad in torn black garments, brandishing in 
his weak hand the piece of rotten wood. Then they heard 
a voice calling the hound. To one of the fugitives at least, 
this voice was familiar, for Rohese sprang up the side of 
the dell with a glad cry, and cast her arms about the neck 
of Bernice of Ely, pressing warm lips to her wrinkled cheek, 
much to that good dame’s disgust. 

“By Satan’s horns, wilt strangle me, thou bramble! 
Let go, wench. Save thy kisses for thy lover; old Bernice 
wants them not.” Yet despite her rough repulse, dame 
Bernice looked up into the girl’s face with a not unkindly 
gleam in her eyes. Rohese, used to her brusqueness, was 
not disconcerted. 

“Thank Heaven, Mother, thou hast traced us, for my 
poor companion will not be able to get to De Cokefeld,” 
and in truth Jocelin now leaned against the bank nearly 
fainting. 

“Poof, who said the monk was to go to De Cokefeld? 
I’ll have no phillandering, wench, I tell thee. However, 
the wight needs food and drink, and we must hasten, for 
thy flight has been discovered, and the monks are buzzing 
like a hive of bees.” 

Rohese would fain have questioned the dame, but she 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


139 


shoved a small venison pasty which she produced from a 
sort of wallet she wore into the girl’s hand, and taking a flask 
of wine from the same receptacle, carried another pasty to 
Jocelin, and stood over him until he had eaten and drunk to 
her satisfaction. Then she whistled to the dog, which came 
bounding up. Upon his back was fastened a bundle, and 
his mistress said to him approvingly, as with many groans 
she knelt to unbuckle it, “ Good Dunstan, thou hast carried 
well!” Dunstan wagged his tail to show his appreciation 
of this compliment, and relieved of his burden, departed in 
search of smaller game than that he had just discovered. 
Selecting several articles from the bundle, dame Bernice 
turned toward Jocelin, and half led, half pushed him into 
the dell, saying to Rohese, as she disappeared after him, 
“Turn” thyself into a serving maid, whilst I make a woman 
of the monk — no hard task by Hecate!” 

By aid of the articles left in the bundle, Rohese, with 
ready wit, soon transformed herself into a buxom woman, 
who from her garments might be some well-to-do Frank- 
lin’s daughter, but who, with dark face half hidden beneath 
wimple and veil and russet braids (the witch’s toilet box 
had been complete), looked little like the lithe and blonde 
lady of De Cokefeld. Up from the dell now came the witch, 
followed by a slender figure somewhat stooped, and clad in 
the sombre robes of a widow, with face well muffled by a 
black veil. Rohese’s spirits had risen, and she sprang to 
this figure’s side, saying, “I salute thee, Madam, for I think 
me I am thy tirewoman. Set thy coiff more erect, I beg, 
my lady!” 

“Dost think I’ll pass notice, Rohese?” Jocelin asked. 


T40 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


“It seems as if I would burst asunder these woman’s 
trappings at every step. Dame, dame, thou hast me so 
tight incased I can scarcely breathe.” 

Rohese laughed — “Nay, Lady, thou must suffer for 
thy looks’ sake!” Here dame Bernice broke in impa- 
tiently : 

“Come, come; there is no time for foolery. We must 
be on our way to Ely. There is another private way 
thither known to me, but ’tis too long and tedious for thee. 
Then too, I go by the highway that ye shall be seen. A 
man will pass by a jewel on his own dunghill, but spy it in 
the most unlikely place. We’ll bide at Ely tonight; thou 
my niece, Margaret Gregory, and thy tirewoman. Now 
up, onward to the road. Thou, niece Gregory, lean upon 
thy maid’s arm; thy widowhood sets heavily on thee, poor 
soul! ” 

And admonishing them with her staff, the witch set off, 
continuing as they followed, “Later in the day we’ll come 
upon Will, my Lord Bishop’s fagot-cutter, who, by the 
Abbot’s permission, cuts spicy billets for his master’s hearth. 
And, if I mistake not, we’ll drive into Ely at nightfall, in- 
stead of riding poor Shank’s mare,” 

Then the strangely assorted party moved onward with 
the great dog in their wake, now running far ahead to bark 
at some imaginary enemy, now circling round them as if 
to assure himself that his charges were safe ; and so, without 
pausing, until they were on the high road, where in a few 
moments they came upon a cart laden with fagots, 
driven by a rosy-cheeked fellow in a leathern smock whom 
dame Bernice hailed as Will O’Ouse, demanding convey- 
ance for herself and companions. 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


141 

“Nay, Dame,” answered the man civilly enough, but 
evidently much afraid of her; “seest thou not the cart carry- 
eth a goodly load of fagots for the Bishop?” 

“Cast out some, if there be not room,” said the witch 
coolly. “Dost remember how Robin lost a wheel from 
his cart when it grazed my garden wall? Or how Jock’s 
brat coughed up bits of stone, could not say the sacred name, 
and when it spoke Satan cried, ‘This bites, but it maketh 
me speak it right well.’ ’Twas ’cause his dame lent me 
not the earthen bowl I craved. Bah, churl! ’Twere ill 
done to risk broken bones, or a spavined horse for a surly 
‘ No’ to weary travel-baited women. Let my niece and her 
tirewoman mount thy cart, and I will walk beside so thou’lt 
get to Ely a good hour earlier than usual.” 

Will, quaking at the witch’s implied threats, and relieved 
that she herself did not propose mounting behind him, 
gave reluctant consent, and Rohese and Jocelin climbing 
into the cart, sat upon the fagots, while the witch, good 
as her word, set off at a brisk pace, with Dunstan following 
at her side. And, strange to say, the horse, though mending 
his gait, seemed to have much to do to keep up with this 
extraordinary old woman. Ere they had come to Ely, 
snow was falling ; and when they had crossed the bridge and 
reached the town at twilight, the houses loomed black 
’neath their peaked coverings of snow, and as they entered 
the quiet dusky streets, the lofty lantern in the great octago- 
nal tower of the church gleamed forth like a kindly bea- 
con to light them on their way. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


“Follow her, follow her; 

Follow her home.” 

The woodman’s cart rattled over the stones of Ely, 
past the church, round the corner, and drew up at a great 
iron gateway, over which was a shield carved in the stone, 
with three crowns summounted by a miter — the arms of 
Ely’s Bishopric. 

“Here I must enter,” said Will, “so Mistress thou 
hadst best descend with thy tirewoman.” Jocelin and 
Rohese descended, she thanking the man courteously, and 
he shame-facedly made them a sort of clownish bow as 
they moved off after the witch, who was fast disappearing 
in the snowy distance. Down the dark street they hurried, 
catching glimpses, through snow- wreathed lattices, of fami- 
lies grouped around their blazing hearths; then past an 
Inn, whence three worthy burghers issued homeward, after a 
merry hour in the Inn kitchen over a pot of foaming mead. 
They greeted the travelers roughly, but kindly, though 
one, (a boisterous wight), proposed that they kiss the 
wenches ere they let them pass; but his more prudent com- 
panions restrained him, and the monk and maid passed un- 
molested. As they walked, the houses were fewer and 
farther apart, and at last they turned from the one long 
street, on which the principal part of Ely lay, into a winding 
lane following the river. 

After making many turnings, Bernice suddenly dis- 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


143 


appeared over the river bank, calling them to follow, and 
to mind the bank, for i<- was both slippery and steep. So 
cautiously they descended almost half way to the water, 
where Bernice entered a long, narrow door, and by the 
time the two stepped over the threshold, she had raked the 
embers together on the hearth, throwing on fagots until 
the room was soon bright and warm. 

When the door was fast shut on the snowy darkness, 
dame Bernice said to Jocelin, “Now, sir monk, off with 
thy widow’s garb, for here thou art safe. But thou, maid, 
hadst best retain thy swarthy skin, though thy dark locks 
will come away with thy coiff. Now sit thee here and warm, 
whilst I see what manner of provinder the witch’s cupboard 
contains. Wouldst like eft’s eyes, newt’s sides, or will the 
marrow of a fat young snake appease thy hunger?” 

She went chuckling to a corner cupboard, leaving the 
girl to look wonderingly about her. The low, heavy- 
raftered room was hung with bunches of herbs and bones, 
(the latter, the townsfolk whispered, dug by the witch 
from the churchyard on dark and stormy nights, though 
they looked more like the bones of animals than those of 
human beings). Along one side of the room ran a rude 
shelf, where were piled flasks, platters and pannikins, 
one or two great wood covered books, secured with brass, 
fastenings, and an alembic, (the witch dabbled in alchemy 
as well as sorcery) ; along with many other strange objects 
unfamiliar to Rohese. 

Jocelin, divested of female attire, sat on a low stool 
before the fire, his face shaded by his hand, looking mourn- 
fully into the flames. He was like a ship-wrecked man, 


144 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


who, having lost all save life in the angry waves, had been 
thrown, destitute, on a foreign shore. What was he to 
do? His world was in chaos. Rohese could flee to De 
Cokefeld, where she would find friends and safety. What 
work — wLat place was there in the world for a renegade 
monk ? 

Dame Bernice, busied with her cooking, bustled to and 
fro, mumbling to a great black cat which followed her, 
purring, about the room. Finally, Rohese broke the 
silence. 

“ Jocelin, dost take thy freedom so ill? Thy sighs tread 
upon one another like tumultuary choir boys in a Proces- 
sional. Why so downcast?” 

“I was but wondering, Lady, where in all this fair Eng- 
land I could find a livelihood. I am too old for a page; 
too sad for a minstrel; untrained for an Esquireship. I 
cannot attach myself to any school, or join the friars, for 
soon the Church in all the realm will know my wretched 
story.” 

Rohese flushed, paled, and with a half sob, covered her 
face with her hands. His words pierced her like a sword, 
for too well she knew how infamously her own name would 
appear in that story. Jocelin ignorant of what had saved 
him from torture, wondered at her emotion, and after 
much questioning, drew from her the story of her self- 
disgrace. He sat still for a moment as one stunned by 
a blow; then he knelt at her feet, and kissed her garment’s 
hem. Bending there with the fitful firelight on his wan 
cheek, his eyes fixed on the tear-stained face above him, 
like some travel-worn pilgrim adoring at the shrine of a 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


145 


saint. Rohese motioning him to rise, he stood looking 
down on her with the light of a solemn resolve in his dark 
eyes. 

“Rohese, why hast thou done this thing for one for 
whom torture was all too fair an end? ^Greater love 
hath none,’ the gospels read, Than he who giveth life for 
another.’ A woman’s fair name is more than life to her, 
and thou, sweet saint, hast offered thine up in all inno- 
cence and goodness. It hath not been in vain, Rohese, 
for though I’ll not accept thy sacrifice, the knowledge of 
it has given me a work to do; an aim in life for such a 
time as my poor life shall endure. I’ll to the Abbot to 
deny thy sweet, untruthful words, and he, in that I’ve 
given up my life to so attest thine innocence, will know 
its truth, and right thee with the world. For thy forgive- 
ness and aid, I can never thank thee, dear, but whether 
I go to the rack, or back to the Oubliette from which thy 
bravery rescued me, Rohese , my love, my tears, my prayers 
are all for thee — farewell!” and turning away, Jocelin 
had stepped toward the door, when he was confronted by 
the menacing form of dame Bernice. 

“Hoity, toity; miowl and spew! What ’tis thou pratest 
of, cell-bredling ? Thou ’It move no step hence to-night. 
Look at thy garb; the snow falleth heavily, and in it ’twere 
impossible to retrace thy steps to Bradfield over the long, 
dark way. What good will thy frozen body do in vindi- 
cation of maid’s honor ? By Hecate, fool. I’ll spring upon 
thy back and stick fast there like a burr, if thou attemptest 
to move one step. Nay, try if thou likest. Try thou to 
open the door of Bernice of Ely,” and she laid a skinny 


146 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


hand upon the oaken slab. “Thou ’It do more than lock- 
smith or blacksmith could e’er compass,” and sure enough 
the door, though seemingly but latched, held fast, despite 
all Jocelin’s efforts to open it. So he gave up all idea of 
returning to the Abbey that night; though steadily refusing 
to resign his purpose of seeking the Abbot on the morrow. 

Even when Rohese entreated him to go with her to De 
Cokefeld, and thence to Normandy, he remained firm, 
and the witch signed her to cease her impor- 
tunities. They presently sat down to a supper of savory 
broth and oaten cakes. When this was ended, dame 
Bernice partially filled a goblet with wine for Rohese. 
When she had finished drinking, the beldame went back 
to her cupboard for more, lingering somewhat over the 
filling of the cup. This she handed Jocelin, who, when 
he had drunk about half; set it beside him on the table, 
saying: — 

“By my troth. Mother, thy wine biteth. I can drink 
no more.” 

“Faugh! Thou hath monkish taste, indeed, if thou 
canst not stomach my rare green Contar. Rohese com- 
plained not.” 

“Nay, it seemed most mild and good to my tasting.” 
So Jocelin finished his portion, and the witch carried the 
cup away with the supper things. Then she brought 
out her distaff and drew close to the hearth, with Jocelin 
on one side upon a long settle, and Rohese at her knee, on 
the stool the monk had vacated. Dame Bernice croned 
a weird song as she twirled her distaff, and the wind wail- 
ing over the great chimney played accompaniment: 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


147 


“When the moon is tiid, 

And the fog looms dim, 

And the night rack black hangs low; 
Through the murky dark, 

Whilst the ban-dogs bark. 

To the dank church yard we go. 

Ho! Ho! 

To the dank church yard we go. 

“There, with Hecate’s brood. 

We will spill the blood, 

Midst the shades among the tombs; 
Whilst the phantoms troop. 

In a ghastly group, 

And the brazen rhomb low booms; 

Ho! Ho! 

And the brazen rhomb low booms. 

“Then the graves split wide. 

And from every side, 

The rottening corpses gleam; — 

And the fires of Hell, 

Light our banquet well, 

Till night fades like a dream. 

Ho! Ho! 

Till night fades like a dream.” 


As the last strain died away, Rohese shuddered and 
turned to speak to Jocelin, but he lay on the settle in a 
deep sleep, and the witch following her glance, said grimly: 


148 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


“Aye, he’s but a weakling. Thou art not for him, girl. 
A man will some day hold thy woman’s heart. I’ll finish 
me this turning, and then we’ll to bed,” and despite Rohese’s 
questionings, she would not speak again. So they sat in 
silence; the monk slept; the beldame twirled her distaff, 
while at her feet Dunstan and the cat dozed side by side; 
and Rohese, with her head on her hands, gazed into the 
fire trying to read her future in the glowing, 
crumbling fagots, while outside the wind howled and piled 
the snow high about the house. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

“Betrayed — captived.” 

“Here’s one to speak with you.” 

In the gray twilight of the dawning Rohese was awakened 
by the witch, who, as they breakfasted hurriedly, explained 
her plans for the journey to De Cokefeld. 

“The ice on the river will not bear yet, and I’d not have 
the monks finally trace thee from my door; wishing to 
keep my skin uncooked for the next fifty years o’ life — 
Asmodeus hath promised me; so, as thou canst not take 
horse this 'side the Ouse, thou must pass o’er it by the 
witch’s ferry. Come now, for one must ride early on my 
ferry if he would ’scape a crowd of open-mouthed lubbers. 
When safely across, knock at the first hut in the wood, 
saying, ‘I come for my horse,’ and one will be furnished 
thee. Recross the stream some miles lower down (thou’lt 
find a roadway leading to the ford from the hut); then 
make straight for the highway. Turn in the first lane 
thou comest to — thou’lt recognize it; ’tis the short way 
to De Cokefeld. Tarry not; speak to none; ride fast, and 
before even thou’lt be safe in thy stronghold.” 

Refusing thanks for her timely aid, dame Bernice assisted 
Rohese to resume her disguise, and, wrapped warmly, 
she followed the dame out into the white stillness of the 
winter’s morning. The town behind them was not yet 
astir. Only here and there a faint wreath of smoke curled 
up from the tall chimneys. The thin coating of ice over the 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


150 

river glistened like a silver sheath, and the snow was piled 
high along the banks, weighing down every shrub and 
tree. ’Twas a fair scene. The silent town silhouetted 
against the whiteness; the lonely, snow-covered hut in 
the foreground; the quaint figure of the witch plodding 
sturdily along before the tall, dark draped girl. Almost 
at the water’s edge stood a sturdy gnarled tree. Rohese 
noted curiously that two stout ropes stretched from its 
branches across the river to another tree, situated 
nearly opposite. As they paused beneath this tree, she 
saw high up in the branches a great basket, such as 
laundresses use for their linen. To her wonder and con- 
sternation, dame Bernice directed her to climb the tree, 
and pushing the basket out upon the rope, to enter it. 
Rohese protested affrightedly. 

“Nay, nay, dame. I feared not the dark passage to 
the tower, but by my troth. I’ll not venture life and limb on 
that mid air cockle shell.” 

“Odds heartlings, wench! Then thou canst bide till 
thy ghostly jailers come for thee. For they are on their 
way hither. Whilst thou slept I summoned my familiar, 
though little enough I learned thereby, for he was as full of 
sullenness as a sulling ox. But the Abbot, remembering 
thou spokest once of me, and the Advocates knowing my 
nearness to thy house, hath dispatched the Prior and 
others hither to find thee, or to force me to reveal what I 
know of thy disappearance!” 

So, Rohese having no further choice, climbed to the 
basket and finally succeeded in scrambling therein, her 
perturbed face peering piteously over the rim at the 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


iSi 

witch, who stood below grinning sardonically up at her. 

“Within the basket is a knife. Cut thou the rope when 
thou art over; and convey the basket to the hut, for I 
would put my ferry out of sight.” 

“But, mother, how can I get over the stream, mewed 
up in this basket?” 

“Bah! How thou grumblest at naught, idle pate! 
Seest thou not a second cord fastened to the basket rim? 
Pull on it, wench, and get thee gone!” 

Rohese gave a faint hearted pull, and the basket moved 
a few inches along the rope on which it was slung. The 
witch lost patience, and broke into a fierce string of invec- 
tives, ending with, “Aye, aye, little addlepate; hang thou 
there then like ripe fruit till the monks come and cut thee 
down. I’ve other business than to be cooling my heels 
here,” and she gave an angry hop and a skip and was out 
of sight. 

Rohese, so deserted, had no alternative but to go forward, 
so she crouched in the basket and pulled at the rope; thus 
propelling herself slowly across the stream some nine 
feet above it. She closed her eyes tightly, too frightened to 
look at anything, and tears of nervous fear trickled ’neath 
the shut lids; but as she pulled away she bethought her of 
Jocelin. Her mind thus diverted from herself to the 
unfortunate monk, she wondered where in that small 
hut the witch could hide him from their pursuers; for she 
never doubted the truth of her informant’s statement. So 
conjecturing on another’s danger, her own was past. For 
with a final jerk the basket hung within reach of the tree, 
and she swung herself into it and descended to the ground 


152 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


in safety. First, as bade, cutting the ropes, which were 
jerked across the river by the witch, who had reappeared, 
and nimbly climbed up the tree and down again ere 
Rohese could walk away toward the wood; where, follow- 
ing a slight path trodden in the snow, she soon came to a 
small hut similar to dame Bernice’s. Here, at her knock, 
a black browed churl appeared, and in answer to her words, 
silently led a horse from round the house, and as silently 
retreated into his cabin, slamming the door behind him. 

Rohese once on horseback, followed the path to the 
ford. The sun rose and shone brightly through the avenues 
of trees. The air was bracingly cold, the palfrey a good 
one; and Rohese felt hope spring anew within her. She 
passed the ford safely, cantered onto the highroad, making 
good progress despite the snow, and after two hours’ ride 
turned into the narrow lane mentioned by the witch. On 
she rode, light-heartedly murmuring snatches of a rounde- 
lay, for youth is irrepressible, and the cares and troubles 
of the past weeks seemed to roll from her shoulders on this 
bright winter day. 

Around a corner where the lane took a sharp turning, 
she came full upon a monk and four nuns, whose approach 
had been concealed by the muffling snow and the noise of 
her own horse. Rohese drove her heel into his flank to urge 
him past the cavalcade. But the foremost rider, a veiled 
woman, barred her way, and demanded in a peremptory 
voice, “Whither goest thou, wench? For by thy attire, 
thou art not gentle.” 

“I came from Bury, madam,” Rohese mumbled. 

“Uncivil jade! I asked thee not that. Wither goest 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


153 


thou ? Lift thy veil when addressing thy superiors. Com- 
est thou from Bury, and knowest not the Prioress Rosa- 
mund?” 

Alas for Rohese! Had she come thus near to safety to 
at last fall into the hands she had tried so hard to evade? 
She shook her head, mumbling some incoherent words 
asking benison, and pleading urgent haste, and again tried 
to press on. But the Prioress kept her jennet across the 
path, and the monk and other nuns drew closely about her 
at a glance from their superior, who had now unveiled her 
triumphant face. Then with deft hand she snatched off 
Rohese ’s veil, with the coiff and false ringlets, and threw 
them upon the snow, laughing as the bright locks came 
tumbling down about her stained face. 

“’Tis no use. Lady,” she said sneeringly, “though we 
missed thee at De Cokefeld, IVe found thee at last. See,” 
showing a parchment sealed with the Abbey seal, “the 
Abbot orders thee to become my guest; so ride with us, 
I pray thee, to our poor convent,” and then drawing nearer, 
and speaking too low for the others to hear, she continued 
insolently, “King’s loves can afford to be particular, thou 
yellow headed fool (God wot my locks were far more 
golden, I vow. Henry called them his sunshine once as 
we sat under the oak at Woodstock) ; so fall thou in behind 
the sisters and follow us to the convent. I’ll ride not with 
a monk’s lehman. Why didst not pick the Abbot if thou 
must play the harlot before thy dead mother’s milk hast 
dried upon thy lips? Fall behind; I am no stomacher|of 
dalliance, as thou wilt find!” 

With these bitter taunts, the Prioresg passed the wretched 


154 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


girl, and led her cavalcade back toward Bury, beyond 
which her Priory lay, and Rohese, covering her head as 
best she might, followed the staring nuns in utter despair, 
while the monk, a burly clownish fellow, rode close behind 
her, as if to guard against any attempted escape. 

While Rohese rode sorrowfully in the wake of her captor, 
Jocelin awoke from the long sleep caused by the witch’s 
drugged wine, to find himself alone in a tiny chamber, 
seemingly without egress; bare save for the truckle-bed on 
which he lay, and a rude, three legged stool, whereon a 
lighted wick flickered faintly in a small earthen bowl of 
oil. The cell was so small that Jocelin, in rising, struck 
his head smartly against the ceiling, which as if by force 
of the blow, was lifted, and the wrinkled face of dame 
Bernice peered in on him. 

“Climb forth, youngster,” said she, “but first quench 
the lamp; ’twere a sin to waste good oil. Odds heartlings! 
’Twas a happy chance which timed thy waking so, for 
hadst thou cracked thy crown so loudly against my flooring 
an hour agone, the Prior and thy brethren would have 
harried thee out like a raton. Indeed, that Norman Prior 
is like a ferret.” 

Jocelin, clambering from the cell, found that he had 
been in a sort of cellar where the witch had placed him, 
once Rohese was away (for, like most old women, she 
loved a comely youth, and Jocelin’s mother had once done 
her a good deed; so she was determined to keep him from 
the clutches of the monks). 

“Did they seek me, mother?” asked he. 

“Nay, ’twas rarer game. Thou, they told me wert 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


I5S 

translated bodily from the Oubliette; some said to Heaven, 
others to Hell. ’Twas the maid they sought.” 

“Ah, Mary Mother! Did they carry her away then?” 
cried the monk, looking about the room in vain for any 
sign of Rohese.” 

“Fool,” exclaimed the dame contemptuously, “thinkest 
Bernice of Ely is to be caught napping? All old women 
are not tabbies, boy! The maid is away and safely nearing 
De Cokefeld ere this time.” 

“And what hour is it, dame?” 

“Well, thee slept long, for ’tis bordering on eventide. 
Thou wilt not have time to reach Bury tonight, if thou 
art still cracked brained enough to return where thou art 
as those dead, whose faults are covered in the tomb and 
forgotten. ‘ In the grave there is no remembrance 1 ’ Ehue, 
will a witch sleep there as soundly, thinketh thou?” 

Jocelin having no comfort to offer one whom the Church 
had taught him to regard as doubly damned, made her no 
answer, replying instead to her implied question — 

“Yea, dame, I go back to the Abbey. ’Tis the least one 
can do who hath sullied the whiteness of a maid’s name 
to wash it clean with his blood.” 

“Dark will soon come down, my son,” said the witch 
kindly. “Bide with me again tonight, for a few hours 
make no difference, now the maid is safe, and on the mor- 
row I’ll set thee on thy way.” 

Footsteps crunched on the snow outside the hut. “Hide 
thee ’hind yon curtain; some village wife comes, no doubt. 
Yea, though they fear and hate the witch, they must needs 
run to her, be it blood in kine’s milk or fits in the weanling. 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


156 

By the step, it is the widow Margot, mother of simple Tom. 
No doubt he hath been at some poukerie again. These 
simpletons are surely begot of Satan.” 

Widow Margot entered; stout, panting and rosy, — 
a woman of some forty years. She was decently dressed, 
as became the widow of a well-to-do Franklin, with rather 
comely features, though somewhat vacant of glance and 
expression. 

Lawks sake, now good dame Bernice! How fares it 
with thee this bitter day ? The wind from the river cutteth 
one’s chops as a cheese whittle.” 

“Well enough, widow,” answered the witch stolidly, 
“what brings thee out, then, in this chill river wind ? ” 
“Why now, crummer,” said the widow propitiatingly, 
“I said to my son Tom, ‘Now there sitteth poor dame 
Bernice all mewed in by the snow; mayhap she wanteth. 
’Twere a kindly deed to carry her a pat of butter and some of 
this rare wastle-cake thy cousin Anne sent us but yester- 
noon. An’ Tom,’ sayest I, ‘’twill not come amiss if I 
carry thither this missive;’ which but this day came from 
London town, brought hither by a messenger in scarlet and 
gold, who flung it at our door with a pack of my brother 
Peter’s motleys, (thou knowest Peter is Prince John’s 
jester, dame), and by my troth, all he spake was, ‘From the 
Chamberlain of the palace, for the widow Margot;’ then 
spurred he away like mad, ere one could question him. 
‘Mary, save us, Tom,’ sayeth I, ‘perchance the goody will 
read it us, for ’tis well known that she readeth like a monk. 
By our Lady,’ say I — ” but dame Bernice stopped her — 
“Aye, ’tis a favor they ask. Yet, thank thee for the 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


157 


food; there’s naught in the cupboard save a crust. Come 
thou back on the morrow and I’ll give thee the prescript 
of the scroll.” 

After faintly protesting this mandate, and relating such 
news and gossip as she knew, the discomfited Margot 
was forced to depart, leaving her gift and the precious 
letter in the clutches of the witch; her curiosity unsatisfied, 
and her fears for the safety of the mysterious missive greatly 
augmented by the precision with which the grim old woman 
locked it from sight in an iron bound oaken chest. 

“There must have been nuptials at Anne’s Grange.” 
Dame Bernice sniffed the spicy cake approvingly, and she 
commented to Jocelin, who, the visitor safely out of sight, 
had come forth again. “Wastle-cake is not so common 
as it was in King Henry’s time. Aye, hard to get the 
better yet. Draw up to fire, Jocelin, the night lowers 
chill. ’Tis well Rohese is safe at home, for methinketh if 
the widow’s gossip be true, the lisping Hawthorn bud of 
a lord who with slight attendance rode through Ely this 
morning is none other than the bastard, Geoffrey Clifford, 
on his way to visit his mother, the Prioress. Odds heart- 
lings! say I Lady Prioress! She’s no more fitted for Prioress 
than Grimalkin yonder. The Favorite seeketh the crosses 
in his mother’s pouch, methinketh, more than the crosses 
on her Priory.” 

Hating the insolent courtier as one fears and hates a 
loathsome reptile, Jocelin set his teeth hard at thought 
of Geoffrey *s leering glances at Rohese, and muttered 
thickly as he stared before him in the fast gathering 
twilight. 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


158’ 

“An’ by the Queen of Heaven, ’twere not a sin to rid earth 
of such carrion carcasses as his. Had one a good sword, 
’twere a joy to prick him through his golden ’broidered 
doublet (where the heart lieth in any othe^f man). In fair 
fight, I mean — openly!” 

“Heaven forgive me,” he thought, as he stretched one 
thin tremulous hand to the blaze, “that I, so near just 
punishment an’ slow, but certain death, think aught of 
taking the life of another!” and he bid his beads while 
dame Bernice glancing furtively at him from across the 
shadowy room, murmured: 

“Losh! I powdered the poor monk’s draught too heav- 
ily, methinks. His wits wander.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


“I am a bastard begot 
In everything, illegitimate.” 

The metallic red of the afterglow fired the west behind 
the gaunt black trees, and cast a stain over the 
snowy road leading to Rosamund’s Priory, until it 
seemed to the cold and cursing horseman, who had im- 
patiently pushed far ahead of his retinue, that the way was 
blotched with blood; and he half reined his steed, shame- 
facedly crossing himself as his horse set foot on the red 
streaks, and then cursed the deeper for his superstitious 
fears. His furred robe and cloak of ruby velvet, gold 
prick spurs, and gaily caparisoned steed showed him to 
be a man of high rank; and the twelve soldiers who now 
came cantering up to him wore the cplors of the Prince’s 
household. This fact would have indicated to any passerby 
that the traveler was a courtier; and, indeed, as he turned 
his fur-bonneted head to the soldiers to petulantly order 
greater haste, the horseman disclosed the countenance of 
Geoffrey De Clifford. 

John was absent from London, and the Favorite, 
under the displeasure of his royal brother, had been left 
behind, much to his satisfaction; for Geoffrey had pressing 
personal business that necessitated an early visit to his 
mother, and he eagerly seized upon this opportunity to 
make the journey. He had counted on completing his 
business and being again on the road to London long ere 


i6o A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 

nightfall; intending to spend the night at Bradfield; but he 
had tarried o’erlong over the Bishop’s wine cups at Ely, 
(having gone thither to ascertain his mother’s whereabouts, 
as she had a colony of nuns established in Oxfordshire, and 
was sometimes there). Then, too, the snow had retarded 
progress, and here, at evening, Geoffrey found himself still 
several miles from the Priory, with men and horses tired 
out from the long, tedious journey, for they had come 
over an unbroken road, and had been forced to plough 
through the drifts. But impatience never shortened any 
road, and it helped the Favorite no whit now; he and his 
men being forced to plod along as best they might until 
the afterglow had faded, when they saw the snow-crowned 
towers and battlements of the Priory, and were soon dis- 
mounting in its courtyard. 

Geoffrey arrived but a few hours after Rohese had been 
locked in a high, remote chamber, and the Prioress, some- 
what disconcerted and disturbed by the proud silence 
of her young prisoner, was not in the best of humor to 
hear the appeal which he had come to make. 

The rich dark dress of the courtier was accentuated by 
the bare grey stone walls of the Hospitlem, which, 
though it did duty as a guest room, was hardly 
furnished save for a heavy bench or two, a Missal stand, 
a painted St. Boniface on the wall, and a round iron 
brazier, wherein flickered a sea-coal fire. 

The Prioress had laid aside her cloak and stood in 
the light of the tapers set on the Missal stand, a severe 
stiff figure in her white serge tunic, and linen head- 
dress. She frowned upon Geoffrey like some forbidding 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


i6i 


ghost arisen from the shadows lurking in the corners 
of the dimly lit room. 

Geoffrey felt the coldness of her glance, and his smooth 
flow of pretty phrases was agitated by it, and broken into 
short choppy waves of words, like a pond ruffled by the 
wind. Ere he had finished his tale his mother broke in: 

“‘Give, give,’ crieth the horseleach! and is never satis- 
fied. Ungrateful, have I not stripped more than one 
shrine for thy profligate spending? Thinkest thou I can 
go on forever recasting the records? The Abbot will 
some day discover the falsities, and then ’twill be disgrace 
and banishment to Acre for my Lady Prioress; and what — 
for her Princeling?” 

“Nay, Mother, thou art overwrought. Something on 
thy journey displeased thee. Didst say thou went to Brad- 
field?” 

“I said not whither I went; nor needest thou know, 
presumptuous boy. Am I, whom a King once obeyed, 
and a realm served, to be cross-questioned by such as thou, 
sirrah ? ” 

“Mary’s bosom, sweet Mum, thou art unjust and cruel 
to thy King’s son. I meant no questioning, believe me! 
Lovest thou me not at all. Primrose mother ? ” and the wily 
Geoffrey, balked in his attempt at discovering the purpose 
of his mother’s late journey, covered his defeat by an 
adroit movement to his reprover’s side, and wound his 
stout arm about her with endearing words, soothing 
her impatience and placating her ire. 

“Ah, thou hast thy father’s way. Love; thou art far more 
fitted for England’s throne than the forked thing which 


I62 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


sits thereon. Methinketh Elinor must oft gird her teeth 
at night, contrasting her mandrake of a boy and thee, my 
bonny Prince!” 

“Little doubt of it, sweetest madam. But my answer; 
what sayest thou. Lady Prioress; can not these waxen 
fingers pluck a few pence from thine household’s goodly 
purse for an unworthy wight ?” 

When Rosamund, in a mollified tone, asked — “An’ 
what sum wisheth this naughty, pestering popinjay? This 
maid-seeking, pleasure hunting votarie?” Geoffrey named 
a sum so large that it caused her to start from his encircling 
arms. 

“What! What! Why, ’tis full half of all the income 
of our revenues, wretched boy! By my Christendom, thou 
ravest!” 

“ ’Tis well then, madam, that thy son be branded through 
the courts of this realm and France as a preading 
coward and thief? I lost the sum to Louis of France 
at dice!” 

“And shall the coffers of this holy house be robbed to 
pay a shameless gamester’s debts? Sideath! Get thee back 
to thy dissolute companions and borrow thou of them, or 
of thy darling brother! I’ll raise no cross of the sum.” 

“Then, woman, if thou wilt have the tale in verity, the 
sum must be forthcoming by twelfth-night, or by the saints. 
I’ll find me in some loathsome dungeon to rot there until 
they take me out to butcher off my head. John left a jewel 
casket unlocked, and I, being in sore need, (by Jesu, he 
should not have placed temptation in a needy wretch’s 
way!), I — O, well — Nay, mother, look not on me with 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


163 


such terrible eyes! I but borrowed his jeweled belt pendant, 
that I might raise money thereon from Benedict, the Jew, 
knowing full well that thou, dear patient mother, would st 
reimburse the heathen dog, and then I’ll put the bauble 
back. John’s away in the north, and will not miss it until 
he returns, some two or three weeks hence.” 

‘‘Miserable wretch!” murmured Rosamund, beating her 
breast, “A thief, a thief, my son a thief.” 

“Well, what was my mother?” retorted Geoffrey bru- 
tally. “God’s eyes, am I to have the chink or not?” 

The wretched mother did not resent his insult, but con- 
tinued to smite her breast, saying, Paccavimi! I do but 
deserve it. ‘That which we sow in corruption shall we 
reap in corruption!’ Aye, aye. I’ll find a way to raise the 
sum,” she responded to her son, who was scowling at her. 
“I’ll raise thee the sum, my son, never fear.” 

Geoffrey’s face cleared. ’Twas as if some hand had 
wiped an ugly picture from a tablet, and limned a fair one 
in its stead. His debonair smile came back, his eyes 
sparkled, as he exclaimed gaily: 

“By our Lady, Mummy dear, squeeze thou an extra 
penny out — add fifty more for thy scapegrace, mother 
dear, I pray thee!” 

“Yea, I’ll give thee fifty, more,” said Rosamund bitterly, 
“As I have given thee all that I was — I am, or ever hope to 
be — as I gave thee life and nourishment when first thou 
earnest into the world, and thou’lt suck me dry, and then 
go and seek another nurse. Thy father took my best and 
brightest days, then dashed me in this dusty corner here to 
die of mold and mildew, or just exist within the cloister 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


164 

gloom, as some poor leek grows blanched within a cellar. 
God’s love! Are women all so repaid for loving faithful- 
ness ? Does love bring naught but punishment and pain ? 

“Come, come, thou king’s brat; we’ll go over the doubly 
falsed books again and see if by some hook or crook we’ll 
pay thee not safe out of thy thievery!” 

And the two left the guest room; the mother white and 
silent, with compressed lips, and aching heart; the son 
protesting, flattering, cajoling, with all the assurance of a 
pander and a practiced lickspit. Geoffrey de Clifford was 
but what birth and training had made him. Rosamund, 
with her cold, capable brain, recognized this only too well, 
but her mother’s heart bled and anguished over this ripened 
fruit of her guilty love. 

Rohese, in her windswept prison, pressed her white 
face against the iron barred casement, and gazed out 
into the' snowy darkness, toward Ely, and wondered 
whether Jocelin and dame Bernice knew of her plight, 
and if they would try to rescue her. But she sighed, to 
think it improbable that the witch could again send a 
key which would release her. And no doubt, ere this, 
poor Jocelin knelt again in the blackness of his Oubliette, 
praying for death to end his suffering. 

“Alone, alone,” cried the girl, “doomed to weary im- 
prisonment, in the power of a very fiend, methinks. Even 
were I the guilty wretch she calls me, surely her calling 
and her sex should teach her to be kind to one in shame 
and sorrow! Ah, Heaven seems so far off! Thou holy 
saints, wilt thou not intercede for me? Thank Jesu, when 
the doors of earth are shut, the doors of Heaven still stand 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


165 

open wide — Ave Maria.^^ And Rohese, weeping, fell 
upon her knees beside her bed to pray. Gradually 
her limbs relaxed, and she sank against the couch. Heaven 
had taken pity on her, and sent its gentle messenger 
— sleep — to heal her bruised heart. 

She dreamed Henry of Leicester had risen from his 
grave to champion her cause; and that she leaned upon his 
arm, a happy bride, while the organ pealed through the 
Abbey church, the Abbot blessed them from its high 
altar and Jocelin, with face uplifted, radiant, played. And 
as the mellow chords thrilled forth, through a painted 
window the sunshine streamed across the tesselated floor, 
and in its beams, two bright and glorious angels smiled 
upon them. 

Far away another sleeper tossed on his couch within a 
hut by the river side ; and an aged woman, trying to assuage 
his burning fever, murmured charms and self-reproach 
in the same breath. ’Twas dame Bernice who chanted 
over Jocelin. 

“I confide in the efficacy of this excellent book, which 
expels the fierce wolf, through fascination, and disablement, 
which muzzles the mouth of the burning spirit of the en- 
trails. Aroint thee, spirit of fire, from these gentle veins! 
Las me, las me, I drugged the poor wight too deep. ’Twas 
kindly meant, I trow! But now, poor Jocelin, blazing 
fever holds thee in fiery talons. Aroint thee, thou fire- 
fiend, I say!” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


“The King’s jester, thou henceforth 
Shall wear the bells and scalloped cape.” 

Closely, carefully did the mother and son study the 
Priory accounts far into the night; but few pickings were 
left for these vultures, who had for years so systematically 
preyed upon the poor convent, that at most, all the Prioress 
could promise Geoffrey was but a small part of the needed 
sum. 

The tapers burnt low in the Prioress’ parlor; the wind 
sw'ept erily about the battlements and towers of the lonely 
place, as mother and son stared at each other with despair- 
ing eyes. Geoffrey sank down upon a chair and laid his 
head upon the table where the records lay. 

“All is lost then, by Jesu! I feel the ax upon my neck. 
John will never forgive me, and that devil dog Jew forced 
me to sign a bond ere he would deliver me the gold I got 
for the pendant.” 

“Thou wert a fool to be so tricked!” said Rosamund 
tartly. Her hand trembled as it plucked at her quivering 
mouth. She was thinking, thinking, as only a desperate 
woman can; turning this way and that in the darkness of 
her despair, for a ray of hope. She could not borrow on 
the utensils of the Priory, as they (in fulfillment of the 
rule under which it had been established) were few in 
number, and of silver instead of gold, save the candlesticks 
and ewer^ which were of brass and iron. 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


167 


“Holy Saints! Thou art saved, my son! The maid 
Rohese has been consigned by the Abbot to my charge.” 
Geoffrey glanced up indifferently. 

“I see naught in that, save an order of punishment for 
a haughty wench whom by my halidame I should like well 
to humble!” 

“Thou shalt! Thou shalt, my bonny boy! She refused 
thy suit and aspersed thy mother’s name. Now she shall 
be glad to bear the bastard’s name. ’Tis said she burned 
for a monk. We’ll quench her fire with a right royal 
cavalier, by Jesu! And she shall have a lady Prioress for 
granddam to the bastard’s child. By fair means or by 
foul, she shall. The wench is here, and by Henry’s love for 
me, my son, if she’ll wed or no. I’ll give her thee for thine 
own. Her coffers are stuffed fat with gold; and her lands 
will bring thee in a princely revenue. On the morrow I 
will urge my Prince’s suit. To bed, to bed, dear one, and 
dream thou of the golden gain and golden girl thou shalt 
enjoy, for though it irks me to the core, I can but say she 
is fair.” And the two locked up the records and retired, 
rejoicing that they had found so easy a solving of their 
troublesome problem. 

But early on the morjrow came a messenger summoning 
Geoffrey to John’s bedside in his castle at Northumberland; 
where he lay ill of a frequent recurring ailment caused by 
gluttony, which later compassed his death. 

There was naught for it but to go. Geoffrey persuaded 
his mother to journey with him a part of the way, and then 
take her course to London, where, by intercessions and 
threats, she was to endeavor to regain the jewel frorn 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


1 68 

Benedict, by promising a far larger sum than the Favorite 
had received; to be paid on his marriage with the Lady 
De Cokefeld. 

So poor Rosamund, a martyr to her maternal love, 
made ready, attended by Brother Simon and one nun, and 
set out at once, for there was no time for dillydallying 
with reluctant brides. The Favorite’s precarious position 
was at stake; perchance even now some officious courtier 
was already creeping into favor by his ministrations to the 
royal invalid; and Geoffrey bade farewell to his faithful 
mother, as she turned off into the London highway, and 
rode northward in a very bad humor; abusing and cursing 
his attendants till he was in much danger of getting a whittle 
stuck through him from behind. 

.Some days later, Jocelin awoke from a long, deep sleep; 
weak, but with mind restored. 

During the time in which Jocelin was convalescing from 
the effects of the witch’s drugs, dame Margot came daily 
to the hut, demanding her letter; but her loud clamoring 
brought forth naught save a glimpse of the grim face of 
the witch frowning on her from the narrow latticed case- 
ment, and not once could all her demands, entreaties or 
tears induce the inflexible dame to open the door one inch, 
or reveal aught of the contents of the missive. Truth to 
tell, Bernice had mislaid it among the many odds and ends 
her great chest contained ; and had neither time nor inclina- 
tion to search for it whilst Jocelin was ill. Now that he 
grew better, she ascribed his speedy convalescence to her 
powerful charms and invocations, far more than to (what 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 169 

was no doubt the real cause) her constant administering 
of such herbs as were known to her rude science. 

One morning, a fortnight after Rohese’s departure, 
Jocelin sat making himself a pair of sandals for the journey 
back to the Abbey, for his illness had left unchanged his 
determination to return thither. Bernice sat near by 
nodding over her distaff. Suddenly her swaying head 
became fixed; her body grew rigid, and the distaff dropped 
from her hand with a clatter which attracted Jocelin’s 
attention, and caused him to rush to her side. She sat 
ashen and motionless, gazing into space, with her thin 
lips drawn tight over her toothless gums. ’Twas a horrid 
sight. In vain did he chafe her hands, and lay away the 
folds of her gown from round her skinny throat. He 
crossed the room for water, and as he turned again to the 
old woman’s side, her body relaxed; she sank together on 
her seat, a crouching mumbling heap. 

“Woe, woe — Rohese, Rohese!” For some time she 
repeated these words, seemingly unconscious of her sur- 
roundings, but finally she cried excitedly to Jocelin — 

“She’s in the toils, wight! They have her fast. A 
vision, a vision, by Hecate! I heard that she- wolf say unto 
her cub, (they stood by written books outspread upon a 
desk), ‘Think on the golden gain and golden girl thou shalt 
enjoy! I have her safe!” Hadst thou not lain so low, 
my son, I’d learned of this long ere now. Now perchance 
it is too late ; and she is in some loathsome den in London 
town! Ah, why were witches born with hearts? I dare 
not try the circle of the rhomb again. Asmodeus fierce 
did threaten me, as I risked it thrice. No magic, black or 


170 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


white, can now avail. Thou must to London town in 
search of her.” 

“ Thou didst but dream, dame ! Pray God thou didst but 
dream!” cried Jocelin. Ere she could answer him a great 
clamor arose outside. It was widow Margot and simple 
Tom, who pounded loud and called — 

“ Josha, old dame! If thou’lt not bring the letter forth 
we’ll to the Bishop with complaint.” Dame Bernite 
sprang to her feet. 

“Aye, there’ll I find where Geoffrey is, and with him I 
doubt not we’ll find the maid. I’ll to the Bishop’s,” and 
donning her cap and cloak, she grasped her staff and was 
out upon the astonished pair in a trice. 

“What — how now? Gossip Margot and witty Tom? 
Beshrew me if it ain’t! ” she exclaimed with effusive welcome. 
“The letter? Ah, ’tis bad, bad doings, dame. I go now 
to the Bishop’s seneschal (a worldly wise wight, who’s 
lived up London way) to ask him what he thinketh best to 
do. No, I’ll tell thee no whit of it till I speak with him. 
And vex not thyself that I opened not my door to thee this 
long while, for mine own familiar hath for some days been 
biding here. Soft — wouldst like to spy him ? Peep 
through the casement, then Margot, see where he sits him 
by the fire. But make no sound, for if his glance but fall 
on thee, by paddock, thou wilt change into a toad.” 

Fear and curiosity racked- widow Margot. She longed 
to see what all the village talked of with bated breath; for 
on winter nights when the wind shrilled high, many a dame 
would say, “Aye, there’s the witch of Ely’s fiend a calling 
her.” The widow shuddered at the danger of the 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


171 

thing; yet felt that the honor of Ely was, in a way, at stake. 
So, to show herself brave and to satisfy her curiosity, she 
took one frightened peep. What she did get was a glimpse 
of Jocelin bidding his beads, inside the dusky room, but 
she sprang back with a cry. 

“Mary Mother! He all but spied me. O dame, forgive 
whate’er IVe said to cross thee o’ late! Thou shalt have 
an oaten cake each week, good dame, by my Christendom! ” 

“Mother, Mother, let Tom spy!” said the simpleton 
pulling at her dress like a child, his great round, beardless 
face and prominent blue eyes wide with terror. 

“Nay, saints forbid, my son. ’Twas the fiend himself; a 
great black man in a cowl, forging an iron chain, blowing 
sparks upon it with his breath, and fanning it with his 
hairy tail; Jesu! I saw his cloven foot beneath his monk’s 
gown! Fare thee well. Goody, I’m off for our Lady’s 
chapel to say a rosary there. If thou’lt honor my poor 
house upon the morrow, and bring the missive thither. 
I’ll promise thee a bowl of smoking broth, and such a 
pie of reeking mince as thou ne’er saw afore.” 

The witch, well satisfied with her stratagem, amiably 
agreed to go; resolving privately to find the letter that very 
night; and she hastened away to the Bishop’s palace to 
find the seneschal, a gnarled, cross-grained old fellow, who 
had once been a varlet up London way, and to whom the 
townsfolk had given the names of “Miser” and “Warlock,” 
the former from his stinginess, and the latter from the fact 
that he and dame Bernice were old cronies, and had many 
a crack together in her hut, or in his office, a little chamber 
far down in the south wing of the Episcopal residence. 


172 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


When she had found him, dame Bemice was not long in 
worming out of him all he had overheard in the Palace 
concerning Geoffrey and his mother. They had left the 
Priory with a nun and priest, and had ridden in great haste, 
toward London. When she was convinced that this was 
all he knew, the witch departed and was soon home again, 
where she found Jocelin pacing the floor in helpless agita- 
tion. 

“The two are gone, but I could learn no whit of Rohese, 
though no doubt she rode with them dressed as a nun. 
They’re hatching some devil scheme, beshrew me, if they’re 
not! Sit thee down and calm thee now. Cackling ne’er 
laid an egg, and ye must do like some tailless ratton, whilst 
I plan the doing o’ it. I’ll dig within this catch-it-all of 
mine to see if I can find the widow’s letter she so prateth of ; 
or else she’ll have the Bishop round our ears.” 

Bernice, after much turning over the chest’s contents, 
produced the letter and began to read. As she read, her 
grim old face brightened, till, with a sigh of relief, she 
finished it and coming to Jocelin’s side and clapping him 
on the shoulder, said: 

“Aha, my bucco! The way is shown! Fate hath not 
clipped short old Bernice’s good days! Canst strum a 
lute?” 

“Aye,” answered Jocelin wonderingly. 

“Knowest thou songs, wight? Canst turn a jest or play 
on words?” 

“I know somewhat of minstrelsy, Dame, and in the old 
peaceful days, before my madness wrecked my life, ’twas 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


m 

said I had a ready wit and agile tongue. But, las me ! all 
that is passed away with innocence and happiness.’* 

“Well, then, it shall return again with folly’s bells and 
nonsense to keep it company. For thou shalt don a fool’s 
garb, and play the part of fool, (which thou hast so lately 
practised), at John’s court.” 

“Why, Dame, what would such as I do there in Cockney- 
town among the rich and gay of a court?” 

“Make ’em laugh, thou fool; or weep, odd bodkins, it 
mattereth not which, so long as thou keepest thy eyes 
and ears wide ope, and find the whereabouts of the 
maid. Hist thou! This missive from the Prince’s cham- 
berlain reads thus: 

‘“Unto the Widow Margot, Greeting: Thy brother, 
with his latest breath, did entreat me to give unto thy 
son his jester’s garb, his bells and hood; in fact, his place 
in court; saying he was a rare fool; indeed, knows many a 
song and old-wife tale, and is as loony mad as any one 
could wish a ninny to be. In short, dame, thy brother 
Petros lieth a corpse, and with this packet of his garb 
I bid thy son come unto his Highness’ court to take 
his uncle’s station.’ 

“See thou, great hawk! ThouHt act the fool instead 
of Tom.” 

“But what of widow Margot, dame?” 

“What, what! The Devil’s tail! Thou talkest like the 
speaking bird a traveler once brought home from Ind, 
which cried ‘What, what’ all day! Beshrew me, if I’m not 
returned here in an hour with the motleys for thee, and 
Margot’s right good will that any save her precious boy 


m 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


may risk life and limb in such a brothel as the King of 
Cockney’s court.” And the witch was gone in a moment. 

She was soon knocking at Margot’s door. A serving 
woman opened it, and cried out at sight of her. “Hussy, 
am I a fifty-legged spider that thou bawleth so ? Lead me 
to thy mistress, pot-keeler!” But the wench fled down the 
flagged passage, yelping as she ran, for dame Margot had 
roused her whole household with talk of the fiend she had 
seen at the witch’s ingleside ; and Bernice was forced to find 
her way to the common-room as best she might. Here she 
bustled in suddenly, much to the discomfiture of some of 
the town wives, who, hearing rumors of the widow’s adven- 
ture at the hut, had dropped in for an evening cup with 
her, and the tale of the witch’s black man. These dames 
soon left on various pretexts; each whispering warningly 
to widow Margot, when in the passage, against harboring 
such visitors as dame Bernice. Margot finally stood alone 
before the witch; now toasting herself in the chimney 
nook. 

“Hast brought the letter, dame?” she asked tremu- 
lously, deeming it unwise to note that the witch had come 
sooner than she had promised. 

“Nay,” said the old woman solemnly, half closing her 
eyes, “nay. Master seneschal an’ I burned it in his brazier. 
Ah, Losh heartlings! Widow Margot, what hast thou and 
thine not escaped! ’Twas dire news that messenger 
brought thither. Now breathe it not to e’en thy dearest 
gossip, or direr yet will be thy danger.” The dame prom- 
ised, her blue eyes bulging. 

“The missive, dame, was from thy brother Peter, who 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


I7S 

has left the kindgom to follow in young Louis’ train to 
France. He sent thy son his cast-off garb, and said his 
Highness’ chamberlain, commands thee to deck poor Tom 
therein, and send him straight to London town to bait 
the bears in the tower.” 

“What? Hearts me!” 

“Yea, every year must just so many youths be sent to 
feed and urge the bears into the pits with prongs, and oft, 
if meat be high or scarce, they say the Prince orders, for 
a merry jest, one of the clowns locked in o’ night, and on the 
morrow naught is left but bloody clouts, and mayhap, a 
bone or two.” 

“Ah, Mary, my precious boy!” 

“ ’Tis ordered so,” the witch calmly responded, nodding 
her head. 

“O dame Bernice,” cried the now terrified mother, “thou 
art great and wise, canst not aid me ? Thou shalt have my 
golden beads and my blue stone brooch, if thou wilt but 
save poor Tom from this dire ending.” 

“If the lad goeth not to court, as commanded, widow, 
they’ll send a troop of spearmen to raze thy house about 
thee.” 

The widow fell upon her knees, wringing her hands, and 
promising all that she had, if Bernice would but aid her. 
But the witch shook her head doubtfully, leaning on 
her staff and leering at the troubled Margot like a goblin. 

“O, O,” moaned Margot; “Mayhap the Bishop would 
aid us.” 

Then dame Bernice changed her manner. She brought 


176 A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE* 

her staff down hard, and rose as if she had determined on 
great things. 

‘‘Now, I’ll tell thee what I’ll do — hast thou a horse ?” 

“Yea, there’s piebald Bess, a goodly nag.” 

“Well, look ye (keep thy beads and gauds, but seek me 
out a double-gown of wool, for of a surety my shriveled 
limbs grow cold these bitter days) ; send thou the nag to me 
at once. Give me the motleys now. I’ll send a substitute.” 

“Ah I” the grateful Margot would have kissed her hand; 
but the old woman shook her off — 

“Fiderol! No fooleries! The motleys, wench, an’ see 
thou tellest no soul of this; or thy Tom’s substitute will 
vanish^ and thy Tom must feed the bears.” 

“Vanish?” queried Margot, and she handed out the 
packet from a press. 

“Aye, vanish like smoke — or a cloud.” 

“Wilt not tell me who shall be sent, dame?” 

They were at the door now. The witch grinned in the 
darkness. 

“Aye, stoop closer. I’ll send a gay baiter in thy ninny’s 
place, whom bears can never harm, beshrew me, if I’ll not! 
I’ll send, decked out in this fantastic garb — let’s whisper 
now, or he might hear — I’ll send the black man thou 
sawest in mine ingleside;” and with an eerie laugh, the 
witch disappeared in the night. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


“Go to London to the Court.” 

JocELEM made the journey between Ely and London 
(’twas some sixty miles or so) in good time, considering 
that Bess was a fat and pampered nag, and he an inex- 
perienced traveler. 

Toward evening on the second day from his starting, he 
came by the frozen Moorfields, where he marveled to see 
young men and lads skim and glide over the ice on skates 
made of bone; their merry shouts and laughter ringing 
out on the cold air; their gayly clad figures brightening 
the desolate landscape. 

The cold and weary traveler found welcome at one 
of the small monasteries, numerous about London at 
that time, and, after spending the night there, on the next 
morning at sunrise, entered the city by Bishop’s gate. 
He rode through Fleet street, and in his ignorance 
thought he must soon come upon Westminster, as this 
seemed a handsome thoroughfare, better built up than the 
crooked, narrow by-streets through which he had passed; 
but seeing among the plastered, whitened buildings none 
which would serve for a palace, he passed on, finally coming 
into Cheap, riding slowly through the icy slush and mud 
fetlock deep. 

The high wooden buildings on either side seemed bending 
together at the tops, and as he gazed at the projecting, 
latticed windows piled one above another toward gabled 


178 A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


roofs, they seemed to hold many curious eyes peering at him 
from behind each dark, diamond-shaped opening. 

It was so early that here and there a lantern flickered 
before the more pretentious tenements, for here were the 
Mercer’s quarters, and guildmen of other trades. 

Jocelin was dressed in a moth-eaten fox-tail cloak; 
a hood much resembling his monk’s cowl covered his 
head entirely, and fell over his breast and shoulders. This 
curious headdress bore a cockscomb, and had bells at 
the corners. One of his legs was covered with checkered 
yellow and black; the other with green and red, and his 
gown of brown fustian was patched with divers colors. 
Few folk were stirring as yet, but two prentices made believe 
to strike at the piebald steed with their cudgels, and cried 
“Hoo la! Sir Ninny; thou ridest early.” 

But Jocelin had no ready answer, and only made them 
a monkish bow. Their address, however, impressed on 
him the fact that he was no longer aught but a jester, with 
a secret errand which demanded expediency; so he urged 
his steed past the prentices, leaving them to curse him for 
a sour faced churl. 

“Hang me and draw me, such a lubber-lipped clown 
as but laughs for pay, Noll!” said one. 

“Yea,” answered his fellow, “methinks his Lord flogged 
him for his churlishness yester eve, and he hath run away 
to Cockney town. Aha! brave cock, your comb will be 
clipped here right soon!” and they called a derisive cock’s 
crow after him. 

Jocelin rode on until, turning into Fish street and round 
St. Magnus’ corner, he came upon a staid burgher, who 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


179 


civilly directed him on his way. The highway between 
Westminster and London was almost devoid of buildings, 
and, at that early hour, of travelers; and Jocelin, glancing 
back over the towers and roofs of the great city, thought 
how fair it must sit there by the riverside in the summer 
season; with its beautiful gardens; its grandeur and magnifi- 
cence; and how pleasant it would be to idle under some 
shady willow by the river outside the city walls, listening 
to the merry clack of the water mills; or to wander through 
the vast Middlesex forests where he had heard that stag, 
deer, boars and numberless wild creatures roved under the 
green- wood trees, happy and free. 

Freel Aye, and while he thought thus of pleasurable 
idling, Rohese was held prisoner; mayhap ere this, was 
insulted and dishonored. It was as if for a moment a 
sick man had slept and forgot his ill and then awoke in 
pain. Now all the old heartache and despair pressed upon 
him again, as with an exclamation, he urged his unwilling 
steed into a trot, until the towers of Westminster came in 
view. 

It was not long ere he came to the gate of New Palace 
yard, so called to distinguish it from Edward the Con- 
fessor’s courtyard. The new part of the palace had been 
built by William Rufus, and was enclosed on the north 
and west, and partially on the south; wall and buildings 
forming an unbroken line which was washed by the Thames. 

Had Jocelin been familiar with the place, he would have 
gone to the west side where was the grand gateway; as it 
was, he paused at the first opening he came to, a small 
postern let in the north wall which opened on a sort of 


i8o A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 

crooked lane leading to the river. Ere he knocked, he 
admonished himself sharply. 

“And now, poor wight, let thy wits serve thee, and play 
well thy part; though, by our Lady, I know naught of how 
a fool should speak or move, save what slight glimmering 
I could gain from dame Bernice, and a faint memory of 
some tale told as we, half frozen, came into the comfort- 
able day-room after LaudesI to grease our sandals and to 
warm ere we went to the morning’s work. Ehue! Now 
vanish, Jocelin de Brakelonda and appear Tom of fools, 
the widow Margot’s son.” And with his short assheaded 
truncheon Jocelin knocked at the postern gate sturdily 
and long. 

“Sideath! Who pound eth so ramagiously ? ” growled 
a fat porter, opening the tiny grated window in the gate, 
and peering out. 

“’Tis Tom, sir! poor Tom of Ely town, and Bess, his 
pretty speckly nag. I pray thee let us in, brother, for 
we’re a cold!” 

“Why callest thou me brother, fool?” 

“All men are brothers, so thou art my brother, and 
being a fool’s brother, must perforce be a fool, so good fool 
pray let us in.” 

“Bah, thou mouthing ape! Why comest thou hither 
to drag a hard driven wight from his first cup, with all thy 
poders?” 

“Thou liest, churl! I had no jaders. My mother was 
an honest dame. I’ll have thee know, old pork, and I’d 
but one fader. I’m Tom, I tell thee, come from Ely town 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. i8i 

at bidding of the Chamberlain. See thou this seal?” 
and he held it close. 

“True enough! Come thou in, then, Master Tommy 
Addlepate. So thou art poor old Petro’s nevy ? By my 
beard, thou hast little o’ the looks of him.” 

“Now dost not know, fat hairy face, that fools, like men, 
art not all cast within a selfsame mould? I am but a 
poor clown, who lives by foolery, and so fare lightly; there- 
fore, feed and warm me, else I perish at thy feet. An’ in 
sooth, by our Lady, a dunghill would be a fairer place to 
pass, methinks; but poor come, Bess’ tail is but an icicle 
by — But how swear ye here in Cockneytown, Wight ? ” 

“Why, fool, we say ‘ Ods fish!’ ‘Ha sideathl’ or ‘By God’s 
true eyes,’ as suiteth the occasion.” 

“Well, if they all are melon shaped like thou, old shad- 
belly, sideath, but they are Ods fish indeed!” 

Some lackeys round the doorway of the offices guffawed 
loudly at this, and the porter, grumbling good-naturedly, 
hastened to deliver the fool’s horse to a groom, and Jocelin, 
who had followed him into the palace was swallowed up 
in the crowd of sculhons, lackeys and courtiers which 
thronged the chambers of Westminster. 

Here he was soon at home among the servitors of the 
Prince’s household, but save for a letter to dame Bernice 
(which remained unanswered), he could do nothing toward 
seeking for Rohese until the court returned from Northum- 
berland, and so spent his time as best he might in the fort- 
night which passed ere John and Geoffrey, and that part of 
the court which had attended on the Prince in his northern 
castle, returned to London. Jocelin hailed their advent 


i 82 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


with joy, believing that now he would discover Rohese^s 
whereabouts. But he was doomed to disappointment. 

There are periods in our lives when its stream of activity 
seems to ebb, leaving us bound in “shoals and shallows,’’ 
where stranded, we lie idly awaiting the floodtide which 
shall bear us out again into the current. Such a time was 
now come to Jocelin. 

The Bastard was too wary to make such unskilled spying 
as Jocelin’s effective, and if he knew of Rohese’s where- 
abouts he was not likely to proclaim it to the housetops. 
Seeing that the incontinent Prince never ceased talking 
of her beauty, and swore that Abbot, or no Abbot, by fair 
means or foul, he’d have the maid at court as soon as his 
indisposition was passed. 

The truth was, there was among his mother’s ladies a 
certain little termagant, with whom John had of late been 
dallying, and he prudently wished to dispose of this mistress, 
of whose temper and tongue he had a wholesome fear, ere 
he began a new amour; for, as the Abbot had foreseen, he 
purposed after making a conquest of Rohese, marrying 
her to his brother. 

As it was, Jocelin had little time in which to further his 
plans, for a jester must ever be within call. A pampered 
voluptuary, John hailed any infusion of novelty into the 
stale, flat atmosphere of court life, and rejoiced to find his 
new jester far more entertaining than Peter, as his wit had 
a tang of wildness in it; a sort of fantastic irony, which the 
ennuied Prince found refreshing to his jaded mentality 
and so Jocelin was often in attendance on him. After a 
while John began to suspect that his jester concealed under 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


183 


his pert speech a sombre depth of mind, differing much 
from that of the ordinary buffoon. And, growing curious, 
he often questioned him as to his former life (though 
without enlightenment); and more than once showed the 
fool a careless kindness. 

One day in a hallway of the palace, he passed Jocelin 
leaning in a window recess very pale and melancholy. 

“What now. Sir fool?” said he. “Is thy trade dull that 
thou mopest in a corner like a love-sickened wench?” 

“’Tis a dull trade that plays the fool to sorrow, my 
Liege!” 

“Sorrow! What knowest such as thou of sorrow. Idle- 
head? Thy buist ’tis to make us laugh, and so perforce 
thou must lead a merry life. How comest thou to be a 
fool, if thou’rt so sorrowfully inclined?” 

“Sire, I began life amongst wise men, and so, Ods 
heartlings, learned early the vanity of life!” 

“Nay, that is not half an answer,” responded John, 
laughing half vexedly, “See thou, Geff,” he said to Geoffrey, 
who, with several lords in waiting, had come up. “Come, 
catechize thou me this slippery loony, and harrow out the 
gist of his feigned melancholy.” 

Between Geoffrey and Jocelin there was a mutual 
antipathy. The Favorite, though the jester held aloof 
from him, (indulging in no jibes at his expense as was his 
way with the other courtiers), felt uncomfortable when 
he caught the brooding glance turned upon him, and shunned 
him whenever it was possible. So it was with palpable 
dislike and contempt that he now began: 


i84 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


Come, fellow, tell his Highness what matter of man art 
thou, outside thy fooleries.” 

“Like many another finer wight, my Lord, I’m but a 
fool who lives by lying,” responded Jocelin, never raising 
his eyes from the truncheon which he idly turned in his 
thin hands. 

“Chut, ass, say how thou lived before thou earnest 
hither — what kind of habitation hadst thou, what em- 
ployment, what livelihood?” 

“I was e’en then as now, sir Chancellor, a poor wight, 
with a borrowed habitation; when my cap was on my 
noodle then my house was thatched; when my cloak was 
tied my chest was packed.” 

“Why, scurvy knave. I’ll have thee whipped!” exclaimed 
Geoffrey in a rage, for he noticed the scarcely concealed 
smile of the others and with his gloved hand he smote 
Jocelin with all his force upon the cheek. Prince John 
restrained him. 

“Nay, coz, why so wroth at a fool’s folly? Why of late 
thou hast been as full of spleen as a child ing wench.” 
Geoffrey mumbling a scant apology, said impatiently — 

“Wilt come, your Highness? The audience awaiteth 
thee; the hall is thronged.” But the Prince urged 
them all on with a wave of his hand. “I’ll follow ye, gentles.” 
He was not yet done with his queer jester. Jocelin’s 
face bore the print of the Favorite’s heavy hand, and his 
lips tightened, but he guffawed loud as the gentlemen 
followed Geoffrey’s wake, and cried — 

“Nay, bullyrook, why such a poder? A house divided 
shall not stand. So ’twere ill that a courtier strike a fool.” 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 185 

“Why so, loon?” queried one of the lords-in-waiting, 
turning ’round. 

“Zooks, sir, ’tis well done to ask me why; beshrew me, 
an’ thou’lt learn more of me than of thy wiseacres, for I can 
and will tell thee the truth, my Lord; ’tis ’cause a favorite 
and a fool live both by favor; and Ods fish, but favor, like 
fortune, was e’er a tricky jade.” Geoffrey reddened at 
this, though he affected not to hear it, for ’twas whispered in 
the palace that his vogue was waning since the return from 
Northumberland . 

“By Venus’ zone, thou art a merry wight in truth,” 
chuckled John, throwing a coin to the jester, as he turned 
to follow his courtiers, “But why dost thou so smile, fool?” 

“Why, my Liege, I still perforce must smile that none 
can see how sad I am.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


“Yea, now Life, deal me Death. 

Your worst, your vaunted worst. 

Across my breast, with trembling hands, 

I gird me for the best!” 

The days went by like clouds across the wind-swept 
sky, but whatever variety of experience they brought to 
Jocelin, the thought of Rohese was the warp of his life, 
into which his dreaming and waking hours were woven. He 
lived a dual existence. One man, the real Jocelin, lurked 
and spied and waited; or with a wild impatient sense of 
helplessness, raged by night alone in his little chamber; 
the other, Tom, the jester, capered and jibed; sat oft at the 
Prince’s table, was fed by him, as one feeds a pet dog, on 
the dainties unknown to his fellow-servitors and thrown 
certain gifts of money, when his drolleries pleased. 

On the other hand he was the butt of all the cruel jests 
and practical jokes of palace and office. He slept near 
the royal stables in a tiny chamber, palleted with 
straw, and for a long time the only friend he had was a poor 
grey ape, the property of the dead Peter, which, left to 
starve by careless scullions, evinced a grateful love toward 
the man who succored it, and often at night warmed it 
beneath his motley coat, as they shivered on the straw to- 
gether. Of late his lot had been the harder, that the Prince 
had lost the great jeweled pendant which he wore suspended 
from his belt, and so was particularly illhumored, and there 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


187 


was much covert spying and suspicion abroad in the 
palace, with general discord everywhere, for when the sun 
is in eclipse, the earth dwellers below him must sit in gloom. 

So, having seemingly incurred the unrelenting hatred of 
Geoffrey, and finding no protection now from a good- 
natured master, poor Jocelin often paid the penalty of the 
general illhumor with his back; for, unskilled in his calling, 
he never knew just where to end the jibe or stop the vacant 
laugh, and many were the stripes laid upon him. 

He would have been entirely desolate had not some 
happy chance brought him a friend in the form of the Master 
Armorer, a dwarfish little Norman, whose great head and 
long arms seemed far too heavy for the rest of his short 
body. Jocelin had found him on his couch in a high fever 
from a wound inflicted by Geoffrey who, angry that the 
Armorer had beaten him in a bout with the broadsword, 
had thrust him deeply in the thigh; and the neglected 
wound bade fair to end the fellow’s life, when Jocelin 
nursed him to health again, prescribing such remedies 
as he had learned of in the Abbey schools. This was the 
beginning of the friendship, and when the Armorer expressed 
his gratitude to the kind fool, and promised to requite 
his pains, the latter asked that he be allowed to come to 
the Armory, and under the Norman’s tutorage, learn to 
wield the broadsword and carry the buckler. 

“By Saint Francis, chucky fool!” he cried, “Thou art 
the first, methinks, of thy calling who feared not the 
sword as a mincing hussy fears a raton. I’ll teach thee the 
trick of broadswording, if thou so desirest, but for one of 
thy condition ’tis best to learn a dagger thrust or two, for 


i88 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE, 


who would fight with a fool? A blow from behind, my 
bucco, is the way for such as thou to settle up old scores.” 
Jocelin turned white at this, though he made some jesting 
answer as he hurried away. He brooded on the Armorer’s 
words all day and that night he whispered to the ape as they 
huddled on the straw — “By the rood, little frere, that 
Norman is a very devil. What saw he in mine eye that he 
should speak me thus?” 

As day by day passed with no message from the witch 
of Ely, Jocelin concluded that she had left her home to 
follow up some new clue; so, relying on her mysterious 
powers, he began to hope that she had restored Rohese 
to freedom; and though he did not abate his watch upon 
the Favorite, he began to “possess his soul with patience” 
until such a time as the welcome news of Rohese’s safety 
should leave him free to return to St. Edmunds. Still, 
not to miss a chance, however slight, of finding the maid, 
Jocelin persistently followed De Clifford, who never went 
forth unattended, but a thin, bent figure skulked after 
him; often, often it followed his horse like a shadow, and 
usually the quest ended far into the heart of London town, 
where in Jewery, in a weather-beaten old manor house, 
whose lands the busy town had long since usurped, 
Geoffrey would alight, and entering, spend an hour or so ; 
but he always returned alone, and poor Jocelin gained 
naught for all his spying but weary limbs and bedraggled 
garments. Finally, finding his watch of the Favorite to be 
futile, he grew almost confident that the witch would some 
day send him a message that all was well, and it grew to be a 
daily habit with him to say to the ape each morning — 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


189 

“Well, little wiseacre, will the good news come today?” 
and the ape, with its head on one side, would chatter 
knowingly. 

Alas for Jocelin’s high hopes, for dame Bernice had sent 
him no message because, in her poor hut, she lay ill unto 
death, with good dame Margot and another village wife 
endeavoring to cure her with such simples as they knew. 
As long as she was conscious she forbade them to take from 
her either her cap, cloak or staff. So one morning she lay 
fully dressed on her truckle-bed, a dreadful sight to see; and 
when in delirium she called upon Hecate, Asmodeus, aye, 
e’en the foul fiend himself, her attendants became so 
frightened that they ran from the cot, and did not return 
till midday. The snow sparkled silver-white under the 
noon sun; the hut stood black against the gleaming, ice- 
bound river; no smoke curled from its wide chimney against 
the cloudless blue sky; on a bough near the door a red- 
breasted robin chirped a promise of the end of winter’s 
reign. At the threshold sat the good dog Dunstan, his 
black muzzle turned to the sky, howling mournfully. 
Presaging evil, dame Margot braved his angry growls and 
pushed by him, followed by her neighbor. 

The one small window of the poor room let in a tiny 
stream of sunlight, which fell across the witch’s couch. 
Asmodeus had proven false to his “familiar,” and the 
promise of the fifty added years of life was never to be 
fulfilled, for dame Bernice’s face was waxen white; her 
deep-set eyes fixed and staring, and the black cat licked 
the cold, claw-like hand, mewing piteously. She had 


190 


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gone to find if there be “remembrance in the grave!’’ 
The witch of Ely was dead. 

4: ^ ^ 

When another fortnight had passed, without a sign 
from dame Bernice, Jocelin lost his assurance, and grew 
restless; action being the great assuager of suspense, he 
naturally turned to the Armory for comfort, and practised 
his sword exercise so diligently that the Armorer soon 
pronounced him a good pupil, though “weak i’ the wrist.” 
The Armory was a long, low room hung with armor, old 
and new; stacks of lances leant in corners upon piles of 
battleaxes, and there were racks of weapons of all kinds 
and ages. At one end the Norman had hung his best 
swords against the wall above a seat in front of which was 
the space reserved for fencing. Often as he and Jocelin 
thrust and cut at each other, a tall, melancholy man, with 
long, black hair and careless dress, would saunter in, and 
lounging on the seat, listlessly watch them for a while, 
and then go slowly away, with a mere nod at the fencers. 
Jocelin never knew him to speak, and when he had come 
and gone several times, he asked the Norman his name. 

“Know’st not Blondel de Nesle? Then thou art a fool, 
indeed! That, ninny, is King Richard’s Rimer; he grieved 
sore at being left behind his royal master, and now, that it 
is known that his Highness has left the Holy Land this 
sixth month, and none can tell in what country he has 
arrived, the minstrel hath become confounded with melan- 
choly, as thou seest. Some day, wight. I’ll wager thee 
my best bladed broad, he’ll vanish from the palace like a 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


191 

quick-winged shaft; and then we’ll know that he’s about 
that which he’s oft vowed — seeking the King.” 

After that, Blondel de Nesle was a source of much interest 
to the jester; until one morning, as the Armorer prophesied, 
he left the palace secretly, and sailing from Dover to Nor- 
mand shores, set out to traverse the country in search of 
news of King Richard. 

Some days after Blondel’s disappearance, Geoffrey 
rode forth one dark night, with Jocelin following as usual. 
He passed through the city into Jewery; entered the Manor 
house, which Jocelin had long since learned belonged to 
Benedict the Jew; and the fool, as usual, waited to see him 
come forth again. 

The time set for the payment of the money borrowed on 
the stolen pendant had passed, and the Favorite and his 
mother had been able to raise but a small tithe of the sum 
with the heavy usury Benedict exacted. The pendant 
was almost useless to the Jew, in that to break it up meant 
a great lessening of its value, and to sell it anywhere would 
result in his instant arrest and certain death, for it was 
known in all the neighboring courts as one of the most 
splendid of England’s jewels, and really belonged to King 
Richard. So in his last interview with De Clifford, Bene- 
dict said plainly that if the money was not forthcoming in 
a certain time he would deliver the jewel to Prince John, 
and trust to receiving his reward from him, rather than 
wait longer for so uncertain a recompense. In vain had 
Prioress Rosamund pleaded; Benedict was inflexible. In 
vain had she offered him certain lands near Oxfordtown at 
Godstowej granted her by Henry. The wily Jew knew his 


192 


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old enemy, the Church, too well to believe he would ever 
be allowed to hold so rich a property. 

Finding her proffers refused, the Prioress left London, 
pausing at the Priory only long enough to see that Rohese 
was safe, and pressing on to Godstowe, where she pur- 
posed abstracting certain jewels and plate held in trust 
there for an infant heiress the nuns were rearing. After 
some delay, she returned to London with her spoil, by 
which (though it valued but half enough) she hoped to 
gain time in which to raise the rest. 

It was to meet her that Geoffrey rode to the Jewery this 
night; and he left in high good humor. The Jew, mollified 
by Rosamund’s payment, had granted them a month’s 
continuance, and the Prioress had pledged her son that 
ere the month had passed De Cokefeld gold should pay the 
debt. 

Jocelin, crouched in the miry lane behind the Manor 
wall, saw a woman come out with Geoffrey, and stand in 
the doorway as he mounted. She was tall, lithe, and 
muffled in a black veil, so that he could not see her features 
in the dim light coming from the hall behind her. She 
waved a white hand to the courtier, who responded with a 
flourish of his plumed cap, and a gay “Sweet dreams, my 
dear Rose-lady!” 

Though standing ankle deep in icy mire, and lately 
shivering in the cold wind, the sweat broke out on Jocelin. 
There was no mistaking that tall and graceful figure, or 
that long, taper hand; then too, Geoffrey had called her 
his “Rose.” The dreaded calamity had fallen; Rohese was 
lost to all good and purity forever. Hidden away in the 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


193 


old Jew’s house, she had finally accepted her fate, and 
now, to all appearances, seemed loth to let her lover depart. 

“Ah, Jesu, I thought not she was so ripe that she would 
lie so tame within such hands. Rohese, Rohese!” he 
cried, leaping the wall, stretching out his arms as he came 
into the dim circle of light, his painted jester’s face ghastly 
in its agony. She started at sound of his voice, and drew 
her veil more closely about her, but she looked at him 
intently for a moment; then she archly shook one taper 
finger at him, and with a low laugh, closed the door. 

Jocelin stood as if turned to stone. “Had I heard that 
one of the blessed images of the saints had descended from 
her pedestal to play the wanton,” he muttered, “I might 
have believed that sooner than this, but by the blood! I 
cannot believe such prostitution of sweet womanhood when 
I behold it with mine very eyes. Alas, Rohese, how changed 
thy very laugh is. Sideathl ’Tis said that wantoning 
and drinking late will coarse the voice and dim the eye. 
How thou must have reveled at it then. Madam! Alas, 
alas, for the maid and monk that were, and woe, ah woe, 
for the poor fool that now is.” 

Jocelin turned slowly, and plodded the weary miles 
which lay between him and the palace, threading the dark 
way with faltering footsteps, peering through the night 
in dry-eyed grief, but when he reached his straw, and the 
little ape cuddling close to welcome him, laid one small 
black hand upon his, the hot tears falling fast washed the 
paint from his cheek as he laid it against the friendly beast’s, 
crying, “Ah, little ape, woe, woe, for the poor, poor fool!” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


‘‘There was no one to ask me why I wept.” 

Rosamund had not counted on a lengthy absence from 
the Priory, or she would not have left Sister Isopel in 
charge of Rohese; knowing well that should the maid 
become aggressive to that turbulent woman, her violent 
temper would conquer her judgment, and the prisoner 
would be likely to suffer severe mental and physical dis- 
comfort. 

Many weeks of solitary confinement are conducive to 
taming the most haughty spirit, and Rohese’s imprison- 
ment, broken by daily visitations from the red-faced, 
harsh-voiced virago, was well nigh unendurable. For, 
following the Prioress’ instructions. Sister Isopel daily 
represented to Rohese in no measured terms the difficulties 
of her position, and the advantages of an alliance which 
would remove her disgrace and set her among the proudest 
of the land; to queen it in court; through her husband (the 
Favorite) ruling the Prince, and through him, the realm. 

At first Rohese, moved to wrath, would reply spiritedly, 
defending herself against the sneers and innuendoes of her 
persecutor; but her girlish repartee availed little against 
the shrew, whose cruel lash of words fell hard and fast 
lacerating all finer feeling, and wounding to its core the 
maiden heart; until, what with scant fare, rough usage and 
confinement, the once high-spirited Rohese was reduced 
to a shadow of her former self. Day by day a deeper 


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195 


melancholy settled upon her, and her passive acceptance 
of Sister Isopel’s taunts goaded that ill-tempered woman 
into an added fury at what she called “Fine lady airs and 
sulkeries,” and she often snatched Rohese’s portion of 
food from her ere she could eat it, and departing with 
many revilings, forced the girl to fast through the day. 

However, as weeks passed and the Prioress did not 
return. Sister Isopel began to grow alarmed at the result 
of her methods, for Rohese’s strength failed rapidly, and 
she sat in the dreary chamber, gazing through her tears 
toward De Cokefeld until one morning she could not 
swallow the broth which Sister Isopel (with much com- 
punction) had herself prepared, and lay listless and white 
through the long hours, until the nun, now thoroughly 
frightened, asked her in softened tones if there was aught 
she wished for — and Rohese replied in a broken voice 
that as she did not think she had long to live, she wished 
to be shrived of her sins, that she might pass in peace. 
Though she sneered at this. Sister Isopel, on looking again at 
the wan face on the pillow, muttered to herself as she left 
the room: 

“Ah well now, who can prophesy what shall transpire, 
an’ ’twere not well to have such an refusal upon one’s soul 
should the maid’s forebodings come true, which Jesu 
forbid.” 

But on inquiring for Brother Simon, she found that he 
had left the Priory to be gone some days, and, after turn- 
ing the matter over in her mind, and seeing no possible 
harm that could arise from such an action. Sister Isopel 
dispatched a messenger to Bradfield house, stating that as 


196 


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her superior and the Priory chaplain were absent, and a 
person lay ill who was desirous of being shrived, she ven- 
tured to apply to his Lordship, the Abbot, for a confessor 
who should come to the Priory speedily. 

Since the disappearance of Jocelin, and the imprison- 
ment of Rohese, Abbot Samson was a changed man; bereft 
of the gentle influences which naturally arise from a foster- 
ing love for younger and dependent creatures, he grew 
morose and irritable, and at times so savage in adminis- 
tering rebukes and punishments for small offenses in his 
household, that discontent and hatred began to lurk in 
the Abbey, though as yet, none had dared to openly rebel. 
Then, too, as a strong supporter of King Richard, cogni- 
zant of the plots and counter-plots for the throne by the 
Prince and his adherents, he chafed under the state of 
affairs in England, and the King’s continued absence; 
and since for nearly a year no news had come from the 
absent monarch, he had begun to fear, as did many of the 
nobles, that Richard had been murdered after leaving the 
siege of Jerusalem, or was held prisoner in some foreign 
land. 

So, for some time past the loyal subjects of the realm 
had been holding councils, sending out messengers, and 
in all ways endeavoring to bring England’s rightful ruler 
home again. 

Blondel had left London with Abbot Samson’s approval, 
and with letters to certain persons of rank and power in 
the continental countries, but after an absence of some weeks, 
no news had come from him, and the King’s adherents 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


197 

feared that he, like former messengers, had failed in his 
quest. 

So it was that when, with many cares upon him, oppressed 
by sorrow and regret for the fall of his favorite, and the 
wantonness of his ward, the Abbot, heartsore and irritable, 
sat busied with voluminous correspondence, word was 
brought that a clown craved audience, he impatiently 
ordered the messenger to repair to the offices, to await 
some more convenient time. So the messenger cooled 
his heels about the servitor’s quarters of Bradfield for 
several hours, until the secretary plucked up courage to 
remind his Lord that he waited. Now, had the messenger 
(an ignorant churl) delivered his message on his arrival, 
he would have soon been back at the Priory with the de- 
sired confessor. But, as Samson was unaware of the 
urgent nature of his errand, it was evening, and they had 
supped ere the messenger was called before him. 

When he stammered out his story the Abbot’s manner 
changed, and with self-reproach, mentally assigning him- 
self a penance for his neglect, he began to interrogate the 
fellow. Asked the name of the sick person, the clown 
answered, cannot say, my Lord.” And when the 
Abbot questioned him more closely, he replied: — 

“La, now my Lord, I dare not say, if I knew, but by 
Saint Swain, around the buttery me heard the sisters 
whisper that our Lady rejoiced to get her claws (methinks, 
my Lord, they said) upon the young one, and that Sister 
Isopel hath a hard fist for smiting, as the bruises on the 
poor maid’s limbs and throttle showed.” 

“What pratest of, fellow?” interrupted the Abbot. “I 


198 


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asked who desired confession, and here thou pourest the 
small ale of nunnery gossip in our ears. Who lies ill at 
the Priory, churl?” 

“La, now, an’ crave thy worship’s pardon; didst I not 

say the maid was Lady , nay, I mind not her name 

now, but they’ve used her but unkindly, it seemeth to me — 
starved and beaten her mayhap, and so the poor bird being 
drooping and all aweary of the cruel cage, seeketh to mount 
to Heaven on the wings of a ghostly father’s prayers.” 
The Abbot sprang to his feet with a look on his face not 
good to see. 

“Zounds! And does that — that. Prioress, dare to 
vent her spleen upon our ward! Is’t Lady de Cokefeld 
thou speakest of, fellow?” 

“Aye, Highness, that was the name they whispered.” 

“Get thee to horse, messenger; get thee to horse. Come 
thou Brother Rudolph; we’ll look well into this matter, so 
prepare thee for a journey. I sent the girl for spiritual 
correction, not for abuse, by my halidame!” 

“But, my Lord, the way is long, and it is dark and cold,” 
protested the secretary. 

“Since when hast thy blood grown too thin to brave the 
cold at thy Lord’s ordering, Rudolph?” said the Abbot 
in grave disapproval. Rudolph blushed and left the room 
answering, “I shall be ready in a little space. Dominie, 
who shall ride with me ? ” 

“Didst think I would send forth one of my household to 
do what I would not, my son? I ride with thee.” So 
the Abbot and his secretary set off. As they mounted, 
Rudolph noted with some wonder that his Lord wore a 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


199 


great black capuchin above a brown monk’s robe, but this 
change of dress was soon explained, for as they rode the 
Abbot said: 

“Now, my son, as I desire to speak with this lady un- 
known by her and the inmates of the Priory, do you tell 
Sister Isopel that I am a Norman monk, under oath of 
silence, who hath been sent by the Abbot to confess the 
ailing person; and fail not, Rudolph, to ask when the 
Prioress returns.” 

When they reached the Priory, and Sister Isopel greeted 
them in the Hospitium, the capuchined monk stood aloof, 
his hood drawn over his face. 

Isopel was volubly explanatory until the secretary cut 
short her flow of words by directing her to lead the 
Norman father to the confessional. 

“Confessional, my brother? What would we there? 
The wench lies sulking in her chamber, contending that 
she is unable to rise, though I have reproved her sorely.” 
The Norman father gritted his teeth, and Rudolph,, fearing 
an outbreak, urged the nun to show them to the invalid’s 
chamber. So, taper in hand. Sister Isopel led the way. 

“By the rood!” muttered the Abbot. “What fools 
men be. Such an Abbot as I should change his mitre 
for a fool’s cap. I forgot me clear that Rosamund bore 
a grudge against Rohese.” This was the first time he had 
spoken of her by name since Jocelin’s trial, and it seemed 
to choke him. “I might have known though, what this 
green-eyed cat would do once she had leave to scratch.” 

“Hark,” said Isopel to Rudolph, “the holy man prayeth 
already. And the Abbot, made aware by her whisper 


200 


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that he was thinking aloud, ceased his muttering, and 
followed them in silence, tugging at his great beard until 
he was near pulling it forth from the hood in which he had 
so carefully concealed it. When they were come to the 
chamber, Sister Isopel, unlocking the door, set the taper 
in a sconce, and she and Rudolph retired, and the Abbot 
and Rohese were face to face. In the dim light, she did 
not penetrate his disguise as he, in a low voice said ^^Pax 
Vobiscum, my daughter,” and sat him near the couch, 
his back to the light. 

Rohese lay like some white lily cut from the stalk and 
placed, languid and drooping, against a dark background. 
As long as she could use her mental and physical forces, 
she braved all danger and bore all burdens; but at last, 
imprisoned and continually persecuted by a relentless 
jailer who daily impressed on her her abasement, her hold 
on life loosened, and she sank into a melancholy whose 
next state was madness or death. 

Tears glistened in the Abbot’s eyes as he looked on this 
penitent, who, too weak to kneel, folded her transparent 
hands upon her breast, and bowing her head, began the 
low whispered words of the confessional, “Father, I have 
sinned — ” She told the story of the journey to Bradfield; 
her connection with Jocelin; his love and the result. Then 
the trial, and the lie she had told to save him from the 
torture. Her confessor uttered an exclamation and in- 
stead of uttering admonition, he said eagerly, “Continue, 
my child.” Rohese then told of her escape, and Jocelin’s 
rescue; of their flight to Ely with the witch, and her final 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


201 


interception by the Prioress. Then she spoke of the 
marriage which they urged upon her: — 

“Indeed, Father, I would that our Lord, the Abbot, had 
not so utterly cast me off, for should they force me in my 
weakness, into this hated alliance, he would be full wroth, 
I know. He loved my mother long ago, as once methinks 
he loved me,” and the Abbot, remembering One who 
wrote in the sand, saying, “He that is without sin, let him 
cast the first stone at her,” bit his lip till the blood came. 

“But, Father,” continued Rohese, “my release comes 
speedily; for my dear mother stood beside me last night, 
and smilingly said, ‘Be thou of good cheer, for joy and 
peace shall come upon thee, after sore tribulation’; and 
where is joy and peace for such as I save in Heaven? So 
shrive me. Father, speedily, for we know not when the 
hour cometh. Are my sins so great that thou canst not 
give me comfort, holy frere?” 

“Nay, nay, my child, but thy end is far distant from 
these days. Thou shalt return to De Cokefeld, and resting 
there among thy bower-maids and thy faithful servitors, 
breathe the pure air and soon grow lusty again!” 

“Nay, good frere. I’ll never go hence save on a bier, for 
if (as they say) by this marriage I could defy my Liege’s 
mandate, and thus regain my freedom. I’ll never wed the 
Prioress Rosamund’s son; and as the Abbot has spurned 
me, and not one of all my father’s friends raised hand or 
voice in my defence. I’ll fall here like a frost-nipped leaf, 
and lie within a moldy tomb, where some kindly nun shall 
sometimes say a prayer, when all have long forgot who 
lies there.” Was it a sigh she heard? Rohese turned her 


202 


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head in wonder, but the black figure sat immovable, sil- 
houetted against the faint yellow light; then kneeling by 
her couch, it murmured a prayer, whose import she could 
not catch, and rising, shrived her from her sins. Then 
extending his hand in silent benison, the father said in an 
abrupt voice, whose tones startled her: 

“Thou shalt sleep in De Cokefeld the night of the first 
day thou canst accomplish the journey, sweet maid, for I 
will intercede for thee with this cruel Abbot Samson.” 

At noon the next day the Prioress returned. Her humor 
was not of the best, for the anxiety and the long journeys 
she had made of late had tried her nerves; so when Sister 
Isopel, in fear and trembling, led the way to Rohese’s 
chamber, and she saw at a glance what the virago had 
compassed in her absence, she fell into a cold fury terrible 
to see, with one glance sending the frightened Isopel scur- 
rying from the room, following her with a sentence which 
made the robust nun tremble like an aspen: 

“Thou hast not yet been tried for that flogging of the 
novice to death in Flanders some eight years agone, dear 
Sister Isopel.” 

At once Rohese was removed to the comfort of the 
Prioress’ own bower. Brother Simon prescribed sundry 
medicines for her, the daintiest fare and the kindest treat- 
ment were showered upon her; for who could be sweeter 
than Rosamund when she chose? So with such assiduous 
care and the cheering memory of the confessor’s promise, 
Rohese revived and lifted up her head like a drought parched 
flower after a summer’s rain. The wily Prioress humbled 
herself before the girl, weepingly confessing her anger at 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


203 


the refusal of Geoffrey’s suit, but maintaining that she 
intended no cruelty, and had punished the wicked woman 
who had so unkindly treated her poor little guest. Rohese, 
touched by the assiduous nursing and these crocodile tears, 
believed in her, and out of the goodness of her heart forgave 
her enemy, who only sought to woo her back to health and 
strength, that she might the better gain her ends. 

Some ten days or so after her return. Prioress Rosamund, 
walking daintily over the damp floor of the office corridor, 
came upon a kneeling nun, who, with cloth and pail, 
cleansed the passage. It was Sister Isopel reduced to 
menial service by her superior. She looked up, and in a 
spiteful voice, which she vainly tried to render respectful, 
begged the lady to pause. 

“What! Barest thou speak to thy offended superior 
thou murderous, ill inclined creature? Thou art so full 
of venom I wonder that thou turnest not to a warty toad.” 

“I did but obey thee, madam,” sullenly muttered Isopel, 
“but that is neither here nor there; I have this for thee,” 
and extracting a folded slip of parchment from her bosom, 
with her rough wet hand gave it into the lily white one 
of Rosamund, who, when she had read it, started as if 
stung by an adder. 

“Whence hadst thou this, foul shrew?” she almost 
shrieked, stamping her foot and shaking the kneeling 
Isopel by the shoulder. 

“Why in sooth. Lady, from the Norman father from the 
Abbey, who wrote it ere he departed with the Abbot’s 
secretary.” 

“Father? What father, minion?” 


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“Well, that mewling puny wench thou seemest now to 
set such store by, thought soon to pass, and pleaded for 
confession, and so Brother Simon being at Waltham, I — ” 

“Thou — thou viper! Thou let’st in an Abbey monk 
to speak with her. O fool, fool, we are undone! I wonder 
ere this the walls were not harried about our ears. What 
manner of man was this father?” 

“Tall and heavy of build, madam. Dressed — ” 

“Bah! I meant not his dress; his person! His voice! 
What like was he?” 

“How could I tell thee of his face or voice, seeing that 
he was covered with a great capouch, and, being under a 
vow, spoke not?” 

“Curious, curious! Was he smooth or bearded? Surely 
thou couldst tell that, hag?” 

“Well now, I mind me when they left the hospitium I 
saw a great grizzled beard stick from ’neath his hood like 
straw from a carter’s basket!” 

“We are undone, indeed, indeed,” cried the Prioress. 
“My poor son; what shall I do? I’ll pay thee well for that 
night’s work. Sister Isopel; thou shalt go back to that 
Flanders nunnery whence I rescued thee,” and pallid 
with rage and excitement, the Prioress hurried away, 
reading again and again the two lines written in a well- 
known hand : — 

“Send Rohese De Cokefeld to her castle as soon as she 
can endure the journey. 


Samson Abbitis,” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

^^IvU in Alemanniam cum donis plurimis.’* 

Rosamund de Clifford showed that she well knew 
the Abbot when she wondered that he had not visited his 
wrath upon those disregarding his commands. She was 
at her wit’s end. Something engaged Samson’s attention, 
of that she was sure, or ere this he would have found that 
Rohese was still at the Priory, and when he did find it 
out the Prioress expected to lose her holdings, or to 
at least be punished in some other way. “Yet, what 
matters it,” she argued as she paced her chamber that 
night, “so long as Geoffrey is Rohese’s husband? If this 
be compassed, then I can brave even Samson; and as he 
has not yet discovered that the maid is still detained here. 
I’ll risk it further, by my troth!” The Prioress planned 
and plotted by her fire far into the night, whilst outside the 
wind shrieked and moaned, as if the spirit of old Bernice 
strove ineffectually to warn Rohese of the danger which 
menaced her. 

Ere noon the next day Rohese and the Prioress, with 
Sister Isopel, escorted only by the attendants of the maid’s 
horse litter, set off for Godstowe; the Prioress having sent 
Brother Simon to Bradfield for news. 

“Our Lord, the Abbot, hath so appointed it, dear child!” 
purred Rosamund, as she rode beside the litter. “Thy 
tirewoman and belongings await thee at Godstowe, and 
she shall attend on thee there until thou art quite restored. 
The nunnery is of cheerful situation, and as soon as these 


2o6 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


snows have melted I’ll show thee merry Oxfordtown, and 
we shall make a pilgrimage to that fair bower at Wood- 
stock where Henry built the labyrinth of walks and ways 
to hide me from the Queen.” 

Thus Rohese, gladly anticipating a reunion with Mary, 
went to Godstowe like a lamb to the slaughter. 

As the Prioress suspected, there was good reason why 
Abbot Samson had not seen further to the safety of his 
ward. On his return from the Priory he had found a 
letter from the Regent, Long-champs of Ely, stating that 
he had summoned parliament to convene at Westminster 
Abbey, and urging the Abbot to hastily repair there. His 
letter enclosed a few lines signed by Blondel, which stated 
that King Richard, held prisoner by the German Emperor, 
languished in the Duke of Austria’s dungeon, whence a 
great ransom would release him. A statement of the 
amount demanded, and the name of the King’s prison 
completed the epistle. 

Now, all the world knows the story of Blondel; how he 
wandered from France into Germany, and by good hap 
came to a tiny village upon the bank of the Danube, near 
the Duke of Austria’s stronghold, Greifenstein. Blondel 
took lodging here as he knew the grudge which Austria 
bore Richard, and hoped to find some trace of the King in 
this stronghold of his enemy. 

Finally he discovered that there were two Englishmen 
imprisoned in the square tower of the castle, on the charge 
of attempting to poison the Duke. When he learned this, 
Blondel went to the castle, and, as a minstrel easily makes 
acquaintance, it was not long before he was free of hall 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


207 


and bower, and had learned all that the servitors knew, 
not much more than what the villagers had told him. In 
vain he spied and bribed; the jailer was unapproachable, 
and none but he and the Duke himself went near the tower ; 
till at last, when almost despairing of learning the identity 
of the prisoners, Blondel walked one night beneath the 
balcony surrounding the tower, and struck idly on his lute 
the chords of a song he and King Richard had composed. 
Then he began to sing: — 

“Your beauty, lady fair. 

None views without delight,” 

when in the well-known tones of Richard’s voice the song 
was finished — 

“No nymph my heart can wound. 

If favor she divide,” 

and the King in joyful accents, hailing his faithful minstrel, 
imparted the story of his capture, and the welcome news 
which Austria had lately revealed that the Emperor, 
in dire need of money, was sending to England a demand 
for a great ransom; threatening if it was not forthcoming to 
put his prisoners to death. 

“But by the rood, my dear Rimer, is my brother so rich 
in love for me that he’ll relinquish any part of his inheri- 
tance for the saving of England’s rightful ruler? Nay, 
only friend of mine, go back to England with the message 
if thou wilt, but thou ’It never see thy master more.” 

Outstripping the Emperor’s messenger, Blondel hastened 
back to England, and soon the news was spread over the 


268 


A feO’rt'LE IN 'THE SMOKE. 


realm that the lost was found, and England could have 
her King again. 

So the Abbot set forth in state for London, attended by 
the Prior, escorted by a score or more of archers and spear- 
men, and preceded by the monks who bore his silver cross, 
his mitre and his purse; and in due time they came to West- 
minster, where he joined the parliament convened in one 
of the small chapels of the Abbey. 

The chapel was a long rectangular room, lighted from one 
side by windows set half way toward the ceiling; between 
these were stucco effigies of saints and monarchs overlaid 
with gold and silver. Opposite the windows, a balcony ex- 
tended over the many low-arched doors, and the room was 
embellished for the occasion with blue tapestries embroid- 
ered with golden lions hung on the walls by tenter hooks. 

The two Bishops who were Regents, and the Prince 
sat on a dais richly canopied with gold-fringed red and 
white damask, which had been erected beside the altar 
rail, behind which a great carved wooden tree sprang from 
a recumbent statue of Jesse. The boughs, bearing the 
figures of the descendants of Jesse’s line, reached high 
toward the roof, forming a screen behind the altar; and 
back of it the sunshine streamed upon the assembly through 
a great rose window of rarest colored glass. 

At a table before the dais, the lords spiritual and tem- 
poral sat in gilded chairs. The temporal lords in gay 
bejeweled brocades and velvets, bordered with furs, with 
their coronets and caps. The spiritual lords in vestments 
of purple, white, scarlet and black, decked with rare laces 
and fine orfreys of apparels, embroideries and goldsmith- 


A BOtTLE IN THE SkOKE. ^ 

work. Their mitres and crosiers representing as much 
power as that indicated by the swords of the barons of 
England. 

Abbot Samson sat at one end of the table with Rudolph, 
tablets in hand, behind him; and the jester gazed upon 
them from the balcony above whence he had stolen, unob- 
served by the chamberlains, who, with short silver staves, 
guarded the doors of the chapel that none might enter save 
those entitled to sit in the presence of these mighty ones of 
the realm. 

Hidden by the balcony’s rail, Jocelin peered down directly 
into the face of his beloved Abbot with a heart-hungry 
stare, which surely would have drawn an answering glance 
if the great man had not been engaged with the Bishop of 
Ely, who was stating the amount of the ransom demanded 
for the King. 

“Who shall be sent, my lords?” asked John. “Me- 
thinks the messenger should be neither so high as to risk 
another imprisonment, nor so low as to offend the dignity 
of the Emperor. Therefore I stipify that no one of royal 
blood shall be sent.” 

The Regents, desirous that the Church should have the 
honor of ransoming the King, agreed readily to this, and 
asked that the legate be chosen from among the churchmen. 
Then followed long discussion as to who was fitted for the 
task. Some of the parliament nodded in their chairs, as 
the day wore on; some stammered, and knew not what 
they meant to say. Some of the barons, for fear of John, 
received his stipification as ruling them out of the affair, 
though some were so burdened with the reasons why they 


210 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


could not go, whilst others should^ that ere they finished, 
their conclusions could be construed by none. There 
were a few who fiercely demanded that they be sent, as if 
bent on making a great show of loyalty; while knowledge 
of John’s conspiracy with France and its possible success, 
kept some from pressing their nominations. 

Finally Abbot Samson rose from his chair. “Surely we 
can but know a herald’s body is ever sacred. So there 
could be no danger to any one who conveyed the ransom. 
I myself am prepared to go in quest of our Lord, the King, 
working either by subterfuge, or openly, as the accredited 
legate of England; and by the arrow of St. Edmunds, I’ll 
have audience with the Emperor and ransom forth our 
monarch. Fie, my lords, should loyal subjects hang back 
on mere pretences from their pressing duty? To council 
straight, my Lords, how shall we raise this ransom, for, I 
shall carry it. 

“In all England,” said the Bishop of Norwich, “there 
lies not treasure enough to pay this sum.” 

“Yea, where shalt so great a sum be realized?” protested 
the Prince. Already all freeholds and cities rebel ’gainst 
heavy taxation. The Jews’ exchequer hath squeezed 
those money-grabbers dry. The scutage moneys have 
scarce afforded food for our hungry sold’ry. Speak, my 
lords of the treasury, what has the treasury of the realm to 
offer on this ransom?” 

One grey old knight arose at this, and fumbling with 
his golden chain, mumbled, “Your Grace, were we to pay 
one-tenth of it ’twould strip the treasury bare.” 

“By our Lady,” said Clare, “at least we the Advocates 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


211 


of St. Edmunds can give of our privy purses,” and turning 
to the clerks of the parliament, he bade them set him down 
for a goodly sum. This example was followed by others. 

‘‘The Church hath chalices and platters of silver which 
she can spare,” said John of Suffolk. “Let each holding 
give according to its ability.” 

Then spoke certain lords of the treasury who had been 
in deep converse with Geoffrey and the Earl of Bigot, 
suggesting that as the shrine of St. Edmunds was covered 
with gold, part of it could be removed for use in this ex- 
tremity. Samson, who until this had been computating 
the amount his Abbey could offer, exclaimed angrily at 
this: — 

“Know ye for certain that I will in no wise do this, 
neither is there power to force consent from me. Though 
by the Saint’s severed head, will I open the doors of the 
church that he who will may strip the shrine. The absent 
who have offended our holy St. Edmund have been known 
to suffer therefrom. What punishment think ye, then, 
will be meted to those who strip his vestment from his 
sacred body? Let him who dares, stand forth.” 

But though the irate Abbot called each lord of the treas- 
ury by name, each answered in turn “Not I, my Lord,” 
and the shrine was not meddled with. Then the nobles, 
willing or unwilling, gave of their wealth. Archbishops, 
Bishops and Abbots pledged the treasures of their convents. 
The Queen, through a lord-in-waiting, proffered certain 
jewels, and the City of London donated generously, and 
it was thus the great ransom was raised with which, some 


A BOtTLlE IN TH6 SMOKE. 


i2il2 

days later, Abbot Samson set forth to the court of the Em- 
|)eror of Germany. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


“Bell, book and candle, 

Shall not drive me back. 

When gold and silver becks me to come on.” 

One blustering March evening a messenger entered the 
gates of Westminster Palace. He was a churl of Oxford- 
shire, whom Prioress Rosamund had sent to her son with 
a message, summoning him to Godstowe, as the time was 
now ripe, Samson being absent from England, for the 
fulfillment of his wishes. Had Rosamund ended here, 
all might have gone well for Geoffrey, but a postscript 
proved his undoing, for she incautiously added “She is 
here, more fair than ever.” 

Now the Prioress^ messenger arrived, cold and weary, 
on Queen Elinor’s birthday, and on seeking the Palace 
kitchen, he there found ale and pasty in greater plenty 
than he had ever dreamed of; and sat late into the night, 
eating till he could eat no more, and drinking until he 
was too befuddled to attend on Chancellor Geoffrey. So, 
taking the advice of his fellow-revelers, he decided to let 
his message wait until the morrow, and nodded and drank, 
and drank and nodded, babbling of his Lady, the Prioress, 
and the beautiful gold-haired maid whom she had brought 
from the Suffolk Priory. Jocelin, coming in, was pierced 
to the heart by what the others took to be the ramblings 
of a drunken fool. As he watched the churl grow heavy 
with sleep, one idea ever recurred to him, — “What says 


214 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


the message he carries?” Finally he led the messenger, 
nothing loth, to his cell, and gave him a place upon his 
pallet. The fellow was soon snoring in a drunken sleep, 
and Jocelin had little trouble to detach his pouch and 
take the Prioress’ letter. Breaking its seal and untying 
its cord, he read it swiftly and understanding^, and then 
crumbling the missive as if its bending had broken the 
wax which sealed it, he retied it, and leaving the pouch 
opened, with the letter half falling from it, he dropped it 
on the straw beside the messenger and stole away, leaving 
him to sleep far into the morning. 

Loud were the churl’s lamentations when, on awakening, 
he found the marred missive. “Vile potleach that I am,” 
he growled, “Now the foul fiend seize me, I must perforce 
have lain upon this accursed thing. Well, ’tis a buffeting 
for me at best, for take the missive to my Lord I must, or 
’twould be ruin indeed,” and so he sought de Clifford in 
fear and trembling, receiving the curses and blows of that 
irate gentleman philosophically. As the fellow assured 
Geoffrey that he had slept in an out-house, entirely alone, 
the Favorite consoled himself with the thought that none 
could have a motive for opening a message from his mother 
and that as the fellow was entirely unknown, his story, 
that he had lain on the missive and broken its seal, was 
probably true. “And Gramacy, what could any have 
made of it if they had read it?” murmured he, dismissing 
the churl with another buffet for his carelessness. Within 
an hour, however, he learned that something could be 
made of it, for his ready wit nearly deserted him when, as 
he entered Prince John’s bedchamber, the Prince said 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


21 $ 


cheerily, after waving away his attendants, “So thou 
thought’st to put us to pot, ungrateful one. Go to! Shalt 
the subject be served ere the King? When thou goest 
to Godstowe thy brother will ride with thee! Ha, ha!” 
and he laughed heartily at the chagrined face before him. 
“The tiny bird chirped well when it brought this news, 
by my troth. I see ’tis true, and the maid hath been gar- 
nered for thee by thy careful mother, ’till now the time is 
ripe.” Well, coz, we’ll go incog to Godstowe soon. So 
frown not, sweet Geoff, but willingly divide the spoils. 
Remember the King’s tithe.” 

So Chancellor Geoffrey had to make the best of it, but 
’twas lucky for the messenger that he was safely gone ere 
the irate courtier rushed officeward in quest of him. As 
he fumed by, Jocelin peering at him from his little 
chamber, smiled grimly and thought as he paced its 
narrow bounds — “Abbot Samson once said, Tf the wolf 
smell blood, he will cease not till he track his prey.’ Rohese, 
I doubted thee — mayhap I douht thee still. An by God’s 
eyes! Mine own hath taught me sore to doubt, yet thou 
may stand in need of aid. Ah, Mary mother! if I can 
look upon her face I’ll know if she be innocent. But pure 
or foul, Rohese, I love thee still, and so mayhap whilst 
two dogs fight for the tempting brocale, a kite may snatch 
it yet away from out their yawning jaws.” 

In vain did Geoffrey assay to slip from the Palace. 
Once he had ridden as far as the Moorfields, when a captain 
of horse, with his soldiers, came upon him, and courteously 
requested his return to Westminster, as the Prince much 
desired his presence. So closely did John watch him 


2i6 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


that after some weeks of ineffectual effort, Geoffrey sullenly 
desisted from his attempts, and awaited the royal pleasure. 
Yet ‘‘Let him look to himself,^’ Geoffrey oft muttered 
when communing with himself. “More than once hath he 
flouted me and come off safely, but this time he entereth 
into the enemy’s country. E’en though it were Richard 
himself, I will brook no interference in this. By the rood, 
he’ll find it’s no easy thing to turn a desperate man from 
his will. Ij John arrives at Godstowe, he shall be rendered 
harmless till this business be dispatched. A pleasant 
business ’tis I vow! Zounds, what white skin the wench 
hath! Her cheek is like a peach. I’ll pay thee, haughty 
minx, for thy sneer. I’ll cause salt tears to wash away 
thy bloom, and quench the lustre of thine agate eyes. 
’Twill be sweet, by Jesu, to hear thee plead — ‘Sweet sir, 
here’s all my gold, pray wed me.’ Yet, ’twere foolish to 
cast away so rare a mould. She’d make a perfect queen 
by Venus’ zone, so when she’s punished till she’s meek, 
she shall have her boon, poor poppet. How round the 
contour of her limbs! Yea, a queen she’d be, with John 
and young Arthur up in Heaven, and Richard ne’er returned 
from Greifenstein (for if the Duke hath housed him with a 
lion, as he swore, old Samson’ll find little there to ransom 
methinketh, save a pile of mumbled bones), then mayhap 
the bastard will turn king, who knoweth?” 

Finally the Prince grew tired of tormenting his Favorite, 
and one morning late in March, he chose to speak to him 
privately as they stood in the tilt yard apart from the other 
gentlemen, and watched two jousters try their powers. 
With an injured look, John began: — 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


217 

“What now, brother Geoff, hath forgotten our project 
of some days agone? Why hast put off so pleasant an 
journeying? Was’t to spite me? Fie, that were churlishly 
done. Come, let us go to Godstowe on the morrow’s eve. 
The thought of that white necked, cloistered wench hath 
set my blood crinkling all the morn. Tomorrow eve, then 
Geoff. ’Twill be all fools’ day, a very fit one for such a 
junketing, eh coz?” 

Geoffrey vainly tried to conceal his feelings, but John, 
watching him closely, paled as he caught a glimpse of the 
hatred which balefully lit his brother’s eye; and continued 
as he moved away, forcedly jocular, “An’ as ’tis all fools’ 
day, coz, we’ll take the fool to make three fools in 
this foolery.” 

The joust soon ended, when Prince John had departed; 
and Geoffrey was left alone in the tiltyard, where he paced 
with purturbed strides, careless that he could be seen from 
the many palace windows, cursing long and deep in his 
beard. “If this fool go,” he thought, “’twill disarrange 
all planning, by my halidame,’ ’twere easy to be rid of one, 
but two were hard to dispose of. ’Twould necessitate two 
fellows, yea, or three, to do the work, if I concluded then 
to make an ending o’ it.” And he strode into the Palace 
deeply thinking. Aimlessly turning down an unfrequented 
corridor, his attention was attracted by a noise outside, 
and looking from the casement into a small courtyard, 
he saw upcurved before him a man’s naked emaciated 
shoulders, quivering under the lash, which was wielded 
steadily and well by a stalwart soldier. The thongs 
whistling through the air, cut the flesh cruelly, and 


2i8 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


caused more than one groan to fall from the tightly set lips 
of the Prince’s jester: for it was he who was being flogged, 
surrounded by a crowd of menials, some curious, some 
pleased, some indignant, but all accepting the flogging in a 
matter-of-fact way, as did Jocelin himself, who stood with 
straining muscles and quivering form striving to suppress 
all signs of suffering. In answer to Geoffrey’s query, a 
passing varlet said : — 

“My Lord, in sooth, I know not why the poor ninny is 
beaten. An usher told me, but since, that his Highness 
returned from the tiltyard in an angry mood, and for 
some offense the fool was ordered to be flogged,” and the 
varlet passed on with a sympathy in his ruddy face he 
dared not express. 

The flogging was not a lengthy one, however, for the 
soldier was a humane fellow, and soon poor Jocelin drew 
his clothing over his ridged flesh and went away to his cell 
to gain what comfort he could from his little friend, the 
ape, who sighed mournfully at his evident distress, and 
seemed striving to mitigate his suffering by such mute 
sympathy as animals can express. 

Geoffrey nodded as he watched the jester creep away, 
then assuring himself that the corridor was empty, he 
drew forth a dagger curiously hiked with brass and jade. 
“’Twere good I found thee in the armory rack today, 
little prick-spur. Thou goadest mine ambition,” and he 
laid the weapon across his side to measure the length of 
its blade. “Jesu, ’twill near go through a man! And 
now for the Fool. John hath flogged him sore of late, an’ 
if I judge aright, he is a desperate villain, with something 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


219 


dark and damnable ’neath his caperings which I can not 
quite fathom. Sometimes methinks he’s a spy sent by 
France himself, for France so plots and counter-plots that 
God in Heaven knoweth not what spells he’s weaving 
across the channel there. But nay. The fellow is too 
patient; he must come hither to do more than spy. Mayhap 
the wolf of Bury sent him here. Gramacy, now that I 
think o’ it, he hath the look of a monk about him, and 
Samson liketh not John. Well, spy or what; or but just 
a ninny, who affecteth a melancholy stare. I’ll see what 
lust of vengeance and red gold can do. If he’ll be guided 
by me, he shall have wealth and a dukedom in fair Nor- 
mandy; that is, if he come not upon an untimely end at 
Godstowe house a-drinking too much ale. Well, by the 
saints, he’s in the mood to strike now if he ever will be, 
and if I succeed in pledging him into this deed I so long to 
see complete, yet which I dare not mine own self compass, 
why by his sudden taking oS there’ll be none save mine 
own leal heart to be my confidante. If John will go — 
I’ve said, if John will go to Godstowe, let him look well to 
himself.” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


“At Godstowe neare to Oxford Towne.” 

The winter’s snows had melted; the earth lay expectant 
of her lover, Spring. Frogs chanted discordant choruses 
along the Thames’ edge, and the night seemed athrill 
with the flutter of unseen wings, as if all the tiny atoms 
animating the green beauty of living growing things, were 
moving unseen through the air down from the great Foun- 
tain head of Life into the fecundite glebe; there to nest, 
cradled safe, until the smile of spring should woo them 
forth again into the sunshine in thousand myriad shapes 
of buds, blossom and leaf. 

The bells of Westminster had just rung two. Over 
the dreaming Palace the darkness closed down soft and 
warm like God’s tender hand spread out above His earth- 
children, and the light of the stars peering through the 
interlaced clouds fell in softened glory through the sky, 
like His smile filtering through His finger chinks. ’Twas 
a night for lullabyes and love; yet, ere the last note of the 
bell died away, three men came out from a postern in Old 
Palace yard, turning down the winding lane to the river; 
and in their hearts raged like the fires of hell, — hatred, 
lust and murder. 

They pushed off, rowing across the river almost to the 
other side, and keeping well in the deep shadows of the 
high wooded bank, they rowed silently and carefully up 
the stream, passing Westminster, and soon coming out to 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


221 


where the river ran lonely and quiet beneath the trees of 
the Middlesex forest. Jocelin sat at the helm, and John 
and his brother rowed. 

On the boat glided under the starlit sky, the occupants 
nursing their fell designs while lightly chatting, the Prince 
sometimes sang bits of tunes. And when, as the night 
wore away, and they had frequent recourse to their wine 
flasks, the three sang catches as they rowed along, with 
such good will that the dwellers of the lonely granges by 
which the river wound, turned uneasily in their beds, 
awakened by the burst of melody uprising from the water. 

In the early dawning they went ashore at Windsor, a 
little hamlet nestling by Thames’ side, with rude timbered 
houses scattered here and there, surrounded with trees and 
gardens clustering round the tower. The walls of the 
ancient fortification rising sternly from its chalk rock, 
loomed mistily in the uncertain light, its windows showing 
black, mere loopholes hung with ivy, wherein the rooks 
and starlings had long built unmolested, 
i They entered an Inn near Datchet mead, where they 
were welcomed as the bargemen, their disguise proclaimed 
them. The Prince had chosen the river route for their 
journey (though it was by far the longer), because there was 
no direct road from London to Oxford, on account of the 
Chiltern hills ; then too, along the river were stationed rude 
little inns for the accommodation of bargemen, and these 
afforded facilities for entertainment such as could not be 
found on the overland journey save at an occasional mon- 
astery. 

Their river journey was uneventful, and they came at 


222 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


last, one evening just at dusk, to Oxford, and disembarking 
at the slimy causeway, they passed through its crooked, 
dirty streets, coming to the northern gate as it was closing 
for the night. A little silver caused the keeper to cheer- 
fully reopen it again, and it was not long ere they were at 
Beaumont Palace, outside the northern wall of the town, 
where Queen Elinor kept a small retinue of servants in 
such parts of the building as were occasionally used by 
her. Here John had decreed that he and Geoffrey tarry 
awhile to discard their rough disguise for fairer garb ere 
they went to the Nunnery, while Jocelin was sent ahead 
to apprise the Prioress of their coming. 

Geoffrey followed him as he left the Palace, and stopping 
him outside the gate, said between his teeth — “Pitlikins! 
Sir Fool, thou art but a sorry craven! Thou hast failed 
to fulfil thy promise, sirrah! Twice couldst have done 
the deed, once at Willingford as he walked to board in the 
dawning; once as he slept within the boat, whilst we floated 
through that lonely, sedgy stretch of flats. And there, by 
the rood, well weighted, thou couldst have thrown him in 
the marsh, and none save thou and I wouldst have known 
till doomsday where he lay.” 

Jocelin replied sullenly — “If thou wishest it so keenly, 
my Lord, why not compass his taking off thyself? I will 
strike at the fitting time, mesaid; the narrow lane outside 
Godstowe would be a fitting spot, but look ye, sir. I’ll 
choose the time myself.” 

“Ha! Thou growest insolent, thou rump-fed braggart. 
Dost forget who heard thee cry, ‘O Jesu, give him to mine 
hands! Deliver thou mine enemy to me!?’ Beware, 


^ BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


223 


fool, for more than fool thou art, lest I cry forth a treason 
to the Prince, and tell of plots to murder him, an’ then we’ll 
see thee hanged as high as Haman for the plotting!” 

“Fear not, sir; I will fail thee not!” 

“Well, then, he must not bide long at Godstowe, Fool!” 
replied Geoffrey. 

“/’// strike when time is fit,'’’ repeated Jocelin monoto- 
nously, leaving Geoffrey to reenter the gate, wondering 
at this queer buffoon, little thinking that the prayer for 
vengeance which he had overheard was not directed against 
John, and that the jester had no intention of murdering 
the Prince. 

On the way to Oxford, Jocelin had learned from the 
brothers’ careless speech of the intent of their journey, 
and since the first shock and horror arising from the knowl- 
edge of their designs had passed, he moved like one in a 
dream, performing mechanically the functions of life, 
while within him his brain was dead to all exterior impres- 
sions, for his mind revolved around but one thought. As 
in a great circle of light, Rohese stood out an innocent 
captive, deserted by all, doubted by him, betrayed into the 
hands of Geoffrey de Clifford by a cruel and wicked woman. 

“Ah, Jesu, and all the while I doubted her. ’Twas 
Rosamund whom I saw at Benedict’s” Jocelin kept repeat- 
ing stupidly to himself, as he rode through the darkness. 
He did not believe that Geoffrey would yield up his prize 
to John, or trust to the fool’s implied threat to murder him 
in the lane. Thus he hardly looked for the Prince to arrive 
at the Nunnery. It was with Geoffrey he had to deal, and 
as he passed down the lane which skirted Godstowe, Jocelin 


624 A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 

drew rein beneath the beetling walls of the Nunnery, and 
took forth the dagger Geoffrey had given him. Kissing 
it reverently, he made the sign of the cross with it in the 
air, and murmured, with his hand still uplifted — “May 
God do for me as I do for thee, Rohese! I now devote 
this dagger to thy cause. I’ll stand between thee and 
dishonor, and if my poor life yielded up, can save thee 
from one leacherous glance of that thrice-damned cur. I’ll 
say amen. For, by the rood, what better death could any 
die than in defense of thee!” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

“A bad woman is Hell’s best tool.” 

Whilst the ransomed King, attended by his fellow- 
prisoner, in company with Abbot Samson, set foot on his 
native land, (a King coming to his own again), in far ofF 
Godstowe a poor maid fought a losing fight; and fluttered 
ineffectually in the talons of the birds of prey which swooped 
down upon her. 

A few hours after the advent of John and Geoffrey at 
the Nunnery, Rohese was awakened by a light within her 
chamber, and started up in alarm to find the Prioress 
Rosamund standing beside her couch, with a white robe 
over her arm, and a small open casket of jewels in her 
hand. She was smiling, though behind her smile lurked 
a menace. 

“Awake,” she cried in gay accents, as she held up the 
gems that Rohese might note their sparkle. “Come, 
Lady de Cokefeld, the chapel is all alight and warm, as 
even is thy waiting bridegroom.” 

“Bridegroom?” queried Rohese wonderingly, not yet 
fully awake. 

“Yea, poppet, and thou must haste to robe thyself, for 
he says he’ll give thee half an hour by the glass, and if 
thou’rt not come to him then, he swears by all the saints 
in Heaven to drag thee to the altar in thy night rail, and 
marry thee so-willa-nilla. So rise, Rohese, and by my 
troth. I’ll act tiremaid unto my daughter that soon will 
be.” 


226 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


“Thy daughter, madam! What mean ye? Is De 
Clifford here?’’ and Rohese sprang from her couch in 
anger. “I told thee I’d not wed thy son!” and she stamped 
her bare foot as she pushed away the hand which held 
out to her the bridal array. 

“And I told thee, thou fool, that Geoffrey was to be thy 
lord,” answered the Prioress, in no way moved by Rohese’s 
emotion, setting the jewels upon the girl’s dressing table, 
and arranging her toilet utensils with a skillful hand. 
“Come, garb thee, for thou’lt be a-cold.” 

“But thou saidst some time agone thou did repent thy 
pressing of this suit,” stammered Rohese, standing staring 
at her with wide eyes. 

“I saidl Mary mother! Thou poor unfledged bird! 
And at thy age, wench, I’d conquered Henry so he’d tremble 
at my frown. What matter what I said. Now 1 say thy 
bridegroom waits, and Father Simon’s at the shrine to 
make two one; so haste thee, hussy, haste; for though 
Geoff’s mother is patient as Grizselda, he'll not wait, and 
he’s been drinking deep this hour, so do not cross him, 
girl, I warn thee!” 

Rohese did not move. She stood statue-like, her blazing 
eyes, like those of some accusing angel, turned on Rosa- 
mund de Clifford. “And dost think to cozen me into such 
a marriage? Dost think to cross the eagle with the kite, 
to foul the blood which for centuries De Cokefeld’s knights 
have died to keep from stain? Nay, Madam, I’ll not don 
thy bridal gown. ’Tis good of thee to bring to me what 
thou dispensed with when getting thy son! Go to, thou 
false and wicked thing; thou wanton gaud of many men. 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


227 


I’ll not wed thy bastard, Rosamund de Clifford; go thou 
and tell him so.” Rosamund bit her nails as the maid 
scornfully uttered these scathing words, and two livid 
spots showed beside each curling nostril. Whosoe’er saw 
those finger prints of Satan on her face had ever ample 
cause to rue he brought them there. 

^‘Art done, thy essence of purebloodedness? Then 
listen; my son stands now in need of gold; so know ye, 
noble maid, that ’tis not for the glitter of thine empty head 
he wishes thee; and there is not another way by which he 
can raise a halfling, save by espousing thee, so wed him 
thou surely shalt. Thou art here with me, remember 
wench, and thy churlish Abbot is in Germany. Why now, 
little shrew, be thou wise. Richard’s surely dead ere this, 
and naught but two puny lives stand between my Geoffrey 
and the throne. Come, make thee ready for the nuptials, 
girl, and I’ll forgive thy spitefulness. ’Tis but the sourness 
of an unripe fruit. Haste thee, for the moments run.” 

“Thou heard’st my decision. Madam, so vex me not 
with importunities. Why, I’d take the veil and bend 
beneath thy reign my whole life long, and empty all my 
fortune at thy feet ere I would soil my hands by touching 
such a villain as thy son. Fit son of such a mother.” 

The gold- flecked eyes of the Prioress narrowed, straighter 
and straighter drew the line of her scarlet mouth. “Thy 
veiling, or thy death would benefit us not, else would I 
ne’er have picked out such a fiendish shrew to sit beside 
my son upon a throne. Hast no ambition, fool? Why, 
thou gawky, country wench, thou shalt be Queen of England 
in a year.” 


228 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


Rohese laughed scornfully. “Nay, lady, wed me to an 
ape, and crown me with a rowan bough. Even should thy 
plottings win; King Richard die by murderous hand, 
and John and Arthur follow after him; there are still 
brave hearts in England who will not trust her sceptre 
to a pander’s paddling hand. Weary me no more, woman; 
I’ll have none of thee or thine.” 

Rosamund sprang forward like a tigress, furious with 
rage, and shook the girl violently. “Thou adder tongue, 
I could strangle thee where thou standest. But no, there 
is a better end for thee. By all fair measures I have urged 
along our suit, and now, sweet virgin piece of purity, thou 
shalt most dearly pay for all thy insults, and thy haughty 
airs. John sits below drunk, while Geoffrey and a buffoon 
drink and sing the songs of London’s stews. As thou 
hast so coquetted and hung back, we’ll let them brush 
ofif some of this bloom of sweet virginity, and see if 
by the morrow’s sun thou wilt not beg for any churl to 
marry thee. “Come enter. Sister Isopel.” 

Thus called, the burly virago came through the door; 
her red face all agrin, leering upon the horrified girl, whilst 
the Prioress continued smiling pleasantly. 

“Now, Sister Isopel, we’ll take this pretty tidbit to the 
lions. Rohese ’s white lips parted. 

“Great God,” she panted, “art thou a woman, and 
wouldst threaten a maid with such monstrosity? Thou 
wouldst not dareP’’ Then gazing from one malignant 
face to the other, she fully realized their determination. 
“Help, help,” she cried. 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


229 

‘‘Yea, cry the louder, that they may come to thee more 
surely, O lily maid,” sneered Rosamund. 

“O Isopel, save me, Isopel!” entreated the girl. “Thou 
wilt not let such infamy be! Hate me, torture me. I’ll not 
complain, but for the love of God’s pure mother, let this 
not be done for sake of womanhood. O, think ye what 
ye do! O thou, mine bitter enemy, forgive my bitter 
words. I’ll wed thy son, and bow to thy decree. Come, 
put the wedding garb upon me; see, we’ll deck the bride in 
bright array,” and with a pitiful attempt at playful haste, 
the poor maid began to arrange the bridal dress. 

“Isopel stepped aside with an inquiring look at the 
Prioress, but she frowned with a hateful shake of her head. 
And the two stood grimly by until the maid had finished 
her toilet. 

“Now, I am ready for the bridal. Lady,” said she with a 
frightened glance at them. Rosamund spoke — 

“Thou shalt dispense with it, as /, Madam, for a season, 
at least. Thou hast tried me too far. Come, Isopel,” 
and despite the frantic efforts of the maid, the elder women 
easily carried her down the dimly lit corridors to the 
apartments where the drunken men caroused, and thrust 
her into Geoffrey’s bedchamber. As they turned away, 
Isopel laid her rough hand on the slender arm of the 
Prioress — 

“Madam,” she said in a strained voice, “I have served 
thee well these many years, but this I cannot stomach. 
Let me go back to Suffolk and take the wench. I’ll soon 
dispose of her. A sip of wine, a bit of wassel-cake. ’Tis 
easy done. By God’s true eyes, this is too damned a de^ 


230 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


for me. Let us remove the maid ere they’re aware of her. 
They do carouse in the larger room, and the bedchamber 
is unlit.” Rosamund laughed. She was in high good 
humor. 

“Get thee to bed, gossip; thou art old, and the 
night groweth late. Tell our Chaplain that he need not 
wait; the lady is not yet quite ready for the bridal. By the 
rood, but thou, who hath nested safe with Simon this many 
a day, thou art an ancient light o’ love to preach virtue to 
thy superior! Good night; my benison on thee, sister dear,” 
and Rosamund paused to watch the nun go slowly away; 
then entering her own chamber, she made ready for bed 
humming a gay French chason. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


“But an thei dye a soden dethes 
With outen schrifts or penans; 

To hell thei gow, withouten les, 

Ffor thei can chese no nothur chaunce.” 

John, Geoffrey and Jocelin had just supped in the red 
tapestried room which opened on the favorite’s bedchamber. 
The Prince leaned upon the table at one end, with Geoffrey 
across from him, and Jocelin, lute in hand, on a low stool 
by his side. The table was covered with food, interspersed 
with flagons of wine, which Geoffrey and John had been 
endeavoring to empty, each trying to out-drink the other. 
John was becoming stupified and sat huddled in his chair, 
a vacant smile on his face, his blood-shot eyes roving 
aimlessly about the room, his rich garments stained with 
the drippings of food and wine. He was in that state of 
intoxication when a man is pleased with himself and all 
the world. 

Geoffrey, on the other hand, was silent and morose. 
Wine never reddened his face, or thickened his tongue. 

Jocelin sat, silent and watchful, his strained ear catching 
every sound. No rustle of the tapestry, no squeak 
rat in the wainscoating escaped him; for, lurking behind 
the Prince in the darkness of the corridor, he had 
heard the Prioress promise to speedily bring Rohese hither, 
and sat, like Geoffrey, waiting for the hour of her coming. 

The Prince babbled and forgot the songs he tried to 


232 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


sing but he still retained consciousness until Geoffrey 
took a drugged cup of wine, which had hitherto set at 
his place, and pressed it on his brother, smiling to note 
its speedy effect, and when John had sunk across the 
table oblivious to everything — the Favorite said: — 

“And now. Sir Fool, that he is well disposed of — God 
wot I wish the drug so dire that he should never wake! 
And if when I leave this chamber he were spirited away, 
and with brother Simon’s friendly aid, thrown into a certain 
pit (the monk knows of), a Dukedom’s waiting on it, 
sirrah.” Jocelin took up his lute and drew his hand lightly 
across its strings making discordant sounds. 

“The hour grows late,” continued the Bastard, “God’s 
blood, these women are long in coming. Sing, thou fool, 
somewhat to pass the tedious time away. I’m all afire; 
it seems as if I should suffocate,” and Geoffrey rose and 
loosened his doublet, as he threw open one of the long, 
low windows. Jocelin’s minor chords throbbed through 
the room. The arras swayed in the April breeze; the 
silver-bowed moon low-anchored in the blue night sky, 
gleamed through the giant elms outside; the tapers flared 
in the draught, sending uncertain shadows flickering across 
the face of the musician, who, cap and bells doffed, bent 
his grotesquely painted face over the lute, softly singing: 

The afternoon of night! 

And my wee white whimpering hound 
Crouches at my feet in fear; — 

For in the thicket and in the fen. 

Red with the blood of murdered men, 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


233 


The sickly pallid corpse-lights gleam 
Across the reedy mere. 

Not one faint star eye blinks 
Above the dank, black earth; 

The bare branches creak in the breeze 
That’s heavy with mist, like tears late shed. 

For the missing lover, the murdered dead; 

And the wind wails by with shudder and shriek 
As if it knew what lay under the trees. 

I know, and my wee white whimpering hound; 

I know, and the dank earth knows as well. 

For the sere grass reeks with thy traitor blood. 

All plucked from the sod by thy clutching hands — 
Ah now, what availeth thee title and lands? 

For thou best out there all stiff and stark. 

And I shall stand where thou late hast stood.” 

Geoffrey called out roughly, with an irrepressible shud- 
der — “Ods bodkins, fool, thou choosest an horrid strain. 
Bah, the night grows chill!” and he turned to close the 
lattice. As he did so, a door beyond opened and a smoth- 
ered cry came from his bedchamber. Geoffrey turned to 
Jocelin, “Now get thee gone, fellow. Dost not envy what 
waits me in yonder room?” (But Jocelin had disap- 
peared.) “The fool’s a very eel. He slipped away as 
stilly as a shadow,” exclaimed the Favorite, staring about 
him heavily. ^ 

“Well, well, the sooner gone the better, for I am all 


234 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


aflame to teach a haughty wench to know her master.” 

“Art there, Rohese? Come forth and sit upon my 
knee; there’s wine left yet and plenty, and the Prince 
sleepeth, my chucky, so he cannot witness our endearments.” 

“What, dost sulk, lady?” he continued tauntingly, “Or 
art thou bashful? Nay, my kisses shall ease thee of all 
shamefacedness, and thou shalt cool thy blushes in my 
rapturous tears. Come forth, sweet, and I’ll reveal to 
thee all the joys of love.” There was silence, save for the 
breathing of the sleeping Prince. 

“Alackaday,” cried Geoffrey, in feigned contrition. 
“See now how I’ve hung back, not chivalrously, mefears. 
Ods bodkins! By the rood, thou white-breasted swan, 
I’m not inclined to dally long, or play the suitor, so madam, 
if thou’lt not come forth to feast mine ardent eyes. I’ll 
come and soon strip thee of thy coquettry. Kisses are but 
the sweeter in the dark,” and Geoffrey walked toward the 
dark doorway. 

When Rohese was thrust into Geoffrey’s chamber, she 
saw through the half-open door, the sleeping Prince, the 
bulky form of Geoffrey at the casement, and a slender 
motley-clad figure slipping silently toward her. On it 
came, quickly, warily through the half-closed door, without 
stirring it a hair-breadth, and in a second a hand was on 
her arm; a well-known voice breathed in her ear — “Ro- 
hese,” and her heart gave a hopeful throb as she recog- 
nized Jocelin. 

“Quick,” he whispered, “ensconce thee behind the door.” 
As she obeyed, he stole silently to the couch and wrapped 
himself in its coverings, just as Geoffrey came striding in, 


A BOTTLE IN THEiSMOKE. 235 

pushing the door back impatiently, letting in a little light 
from the low burning tapers. 

“Ah, minion,” cried he. “Come now, no more feigned 
modesty; unwrap thee, sweet, and come thou forth to me,” 
so saying he bent over the bed to throw off its covering. 
Jocelin, lying waiting there in the darkness, for one brief 
second, had the smell of fresh blood in his nostrils, a red 
mist swam before his eyes, whilst his heart sang within 
him, “I shall kill him, I shall kill him;” and as Geoffrey 
bending lower, impatiently twitched the coverlet aside, 
Jocelin, with a snarl of hatred, sprang upward, clutching 
at his throat, driving the dagger through him; and Geoffrey 
taken by surprise, had only time to cry, “Villain,” and draw 
forth the dagger, ere he fell across the couch — dead. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


“ Once more shall the coming spring restore 
What the winter rude hath taken.” 

“He is dead, quite dead, Rohese,” said Jocelin com- 
posedly, as he followed her from the room. He felt no 
compunction, no horror at what he had done. The past 
months had been a sort of apprenticeship for this deed. 
From the hour, when in Bradfield’s hall, the Bastard had 
been proffered as Rohese’s husband, until, with time and 
favorable circumstances, it culminated in murder. 

As he paused in the doorway to look backward into the 
shadowy room where his enemy lay, he murmured as one 
who breathes a heartfelt prayer — “Jubilate! The world 
is quit of thee, through me!” 

Rohese sank into a chair, sobbing convulsively. Jocelin 
soothing her gently, brought wine from the disordered 
table; and when she was calm again said: 

“Dear Lady, we are in God’s hands, to Whom be praise 
that He hath brought low our enemy. So if it be His 
will, we shall walk safely from this den of infamy. Come, 
wrap thee in my cloak, and speak not, no matter what 
betides.” 

The tapers guttered in their sconces; the atmosphere of 
the room reeked with wine; the drunken Prince snored; 
his head upon the table, as dead to the world as his brother, 
who lay yonder in the darkness, his licentious hand still 
grasping the covering which he had so hotly snatched 
but a moment since, from his intended victim. 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


237 


Brother Simon dozed on guard in the vestibule, but he 
started up as Rohese and Jocelin approached. “Benedi- 
cite, brother,” said Jocelin. 

“Benedicite, fool,” answered he good-naturedly enough, 
though he was still drowsy. 

“Unbar the door, good Simon. I’m to the stables, for 
I’ve letters to carry to the Inn by the causeway, and this 
wench to convey to Beaumont, willa, nilla.” Simon com- 
plied slowly, leering sleepily at Rohese the while. To 
Jocelin it seemed as if hours passed ere he drew the great 
bolt. 

“Hasten, brother,” he urged. “’Tis near on to the 
second cock-crow, and no sleep have I had this night. So 
by the rood, I would quick dispatch this business.” Simon 
let down the bolt, and turned the door knob. It had 
begun to swing open when a step sounded and a woman 
with a taper in her hand came toward them, peering through 
the hall but faintly lighted by an iron lamp hanging high 
from its vaulted ceiling. 

“Ah!” cried Rohese softly, and Jocelin, startled by her 
exclamation, turned and saw Sister Isopel. “Ah well, all’s 
over now. Praise God, at least, Rohese can never be the 
lehman of De Clifford,” he thought. 

“What is’t, Simon? Wait,” called Isopel in a cautious 
voice. Simon, with the chill night air blowing upon his 
bare legs, stood frowning until she came up, then he said 
sulkily: 

“Letters to carry, and the wench too. ’Tis thy late 
charge. They’re sending her to Beaumont.” 

“ O Isopel,” murmured Rohese, stretching out a tremulou j 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


238 

‘“V ; 

hand toward the great nun. There was a world of entreaty 
in the sound, and her pallid tear-stained young face looked 
out from its dark wrappings in an agony of supplication. 
Isopel hesitated. Conscience had kept her awake this 
night, for hardened as she was, the cold-blooded wicked- 
ness of the Prioress had sickened her. Quicker than Simon, 
her keener brain suspicioned that in some way Jocelin had 
contrived the girl’s rescue, and she thought that it would 
be but a moment ere the convent would be about their ears. 
It was no light thing to incur the ire of the Prioress Rosa- 
mund, she knew, so she hesitated a moment, and then — 
all honor to this bad and violent woman, she gave Rohese 
a rude pat on the arm, and, commanding Simon to hasten, 
she closed the door after them. 

The darkness of the last hours of night lay over the 
earth, as Rohese and Jocelin rode swiftly from Godstowe 
They spoke little, save that Jocelin told her he purposed 
making for Bradfield, in hope that the Abbot was returned. 

Full nearly an hundred miles lay between them and 
their destination, and they knew that but a few hours’ 
start was all that they could hope for; so, turning northeast 
they rode till morning, when they paused at a brook, and 
Jocelin washed his painted face, and doffed his jester’s 
garb, for next his body he had worn the black habit of his 
order. By day, at Westminster, he had been Tom o’ Fools, 
but by night, locked in his chamber, he was always Jocelin 
de Brakelonda, the renegade monk of St. Edmunds. 

The country between Oxford and Bury was but thinly 
inhabited, so they passed on unchallenged, and by avoiding 
the far-scattered granges and manors, they escaped the 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


observation of any save a few churls, (shepherds or plough- 
men), at whose rude huts they found food and *shelter. 

They rode onward in safety; greeted on every side by 
all the sweet, shy beauty of budding April; the blue speed- 
well bidding them “God speed;” the violet hiding her 
head that she might not spy on them; the laburnums glowing 
the redder as they passed, and the lark singing high in the 
blue above them, of hope and joy. 

Through Buckinghamshire they went, Bedford, Hert- 
ford, Cambridge and Suffolk, and at last, one bright morn- 
ing, they again rode together beneath the Abbey walls, 
and entered the gates of Bradfield house. 

Bradfield was in gala array; banners floated in the sun- 
shine, and pennants streamed forth from all the towers; 
soldiers stood on guard in the courtyard, and from inside 
the palace came the sound of pipe and tabor, rehearsing 
triumphal music. 

Brother Tristian and others worked in the great hall 
chattering like magpies over the decorations; for they 
were hanging the room with brocades and rare tapestries, 
and had decked it with garlands. The old man was turn- 
ing from the group, when the hammer dropped from his 
hand, as his gaze rested on the entering pair, and he cried 
in sort of joyous terror, “’Tis Jocelin, by the rood, ’tis 
Jocelin!” 

Then all was commotion, exclamations and questionings, 
but Jocelin answered them not, asking that the Prior be 
brought. When he had come, gaping wide as the rest, 
he listened in silence to Jocelin’s hurried explanations, 
and ordered the Gate-chamber prepared for the Lady de 


240 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


Cokefeld, and Jocelin to return to his own cell, long left 
untenanted. 

Rohese, ensconced in the familiar chamber, hastened to 
fling herself upon her couch, and slept soundly till late in 
the afternoon. 

It was just at sunset that the sound of distant bugles 
awoke her. And then the tramp of horses, and the haloo- 
ing of men outside the gate sent her hurrying to the case- 
ment, where she sat looking out, her heart beating high 
with the excitement of the Abbot’s home-coming, for the 
monks had told them that Samson returned from Germany 
with Richard; had landed safely at Dover, and would reach 
Bradfield that very night. 

Rohese leaned out. The sky was incarnadined; purple 
and gold clouds lay massed above the great gateway. In 
the woods behind Bradfield, the shimmering green of the 
budding trees seemed to hang illusive, as if not yet decided 
to glorify the waiting boughs. The perfume of apple- 
blossoms was wafted from the Abbey garden, and every- 
thing seemed athrill with joyful expectancy. 

A crowd of monks, with music and laughter, streamed 
down the marble steps of the palace, across the courtyard, 
below her, and formed in long lines on each side of the 
gates as they were flung open; and Samson, returned suc- 
cessful from his mission, garbed in regal purple, his great 
beard lying far down on his broad breast, his ruddy face 
lit with benignant smiles, rode into the courtyard. 

He was followed by a retinue, headed by a young knight 
who, with casque back from his face, sat his horse, tow- 
ering above his companions. His countenance, marked 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


241 


by experience and suffering, bore the stamp of strength and 
power; but his stern features were softened by a pair of 
blue eyes as deep and tender as a doe’s. 

It was Henry of Leicester, liberated from his imprison- 
ment with the King, who had come to partake of the Abbot’s 
hospitality before entering into possession of his inheritance. 

As if drawn by Rohese’s gaze, he glanced upward and 
bowed low, his face glorified by passionate joy, his eyes 
feasting upon the maid he had never Ceased to love through 
all the long time of his absence and imprisonment. • 

Rohese, meeting his gaze, went white and red by turns, 
and sat with one hand pressed to her swelling heart, smiling 
a welcome to him. Such a smile as only a proud and 
happy woman can bestow upon the conqueror of her heart 
who had come back, as from the grave, to claim his own 
It was a smile which curved the lip and mantled the cheek 
with blushes, while it wooed the tears from her shining 
eyes, and sent them over her cheek like dewdrops dripping 
over pink rose petals. 

Then the train withdrew into the palace, and Rohese, 
her heart throbbing with wild exultation, paced her chamber 
in all the ecstasy of resurrected hope and joy. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


“Like fading shadows we depart, 

O brother of a broken heart; 

Let sorrow blossom into peace.” 

If John and Rosamund, clamoring at King Richard’s 
feet for vengeance on the Bastard’s murderer, ever suc- 
ceeded in connecting Tom o’ Fools with the monk of Bury, 
the King and Abbot did not aid in following up the clue; and 
so all trace of the Prince’s jester was lost, and John ever 
after moved under a cloud of suspicion of having slain 
Geoffrey de Clifford in a drunken brawl. 

In the general rejoicing at St. Edmunds, Jocelin sat in 
his cell, a creature apart. Joy was not for him. All he 
could ever hope for was a certain degree of calmness of 
soul, with which he might accept with resignation, the life 
stretching before him in shadowy vistas, unlighted 
by any glint of that happiness which, snatching at, he had 
wrecked his life’s craft with all the golden argosies desire 
had launched so hopefully. . 

Abbot Samson, while pardoning his erstwhile favorite 
on account of the intercession of Rohese and Henry, de- 
creed that he should become a Recluse. Indeed, he was 
shunned by most of the brethren who believed him in 
league with Satan, on account of his mysterious escape; 
and the rest, headed by old Tristian, held aloof from him 
as one set apart from mankind, by that miracle which the 
Saints wrought in his behalf. 


A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE. 


243 


Rohese dreamed true in the desolate Priory chamber. 
Thus, after weary years of waiting, fulfilling her dead 
father’s prophecy. When she stood at Henry’s side, and 
the Abbot, his rich pontificals blazing in the light of the 
altar, had wedded them, from the fretted choir above 
came a burst of music, and Rohese, looking up, saw Jocelin 
for the last time. He was seated at the organ, the pierce- 
work of its dark carved screen framing the black-robed 
figure, and white face, with passionate eyes uplifted in an 
agony of renunciation. 

Thus Jocelin played the bridal processional of the woman 
he loved. In it echoed the despair of hopeless passion, 
the throbbing joy of love fulfilled, and ever through all, 
the tonic was sustained, like the voice of one who sang, 
with breaking heart, a sad farewell; whilst the other parts 
moved on in glad and stately chorus, presaging bliss, 
prosperity, and the founding of a long and noble line. 
The light from a window fell upon the musician in a radiant 
stream, and Rohese wondered if the two angels of her 
dream hovered there. But she saw naught save the golden 
motes dancing in the sunshine. 


Cooke Don-Carlos. 








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